Tree (a poem)

I am somewhat obsessed by trees. They feel like a parallel community, much wiser and more resilient than humans. This is one of several poems I have written about them.

Tree

Next to you, fictive aliens are prosaic.
You inhale my exhalation.
Your waste exhalation
is my necessary breath.
And you grow. An alchemic baker,
making bread from the elements,
you stand and grow. You transform
the earth beneath you, the air above you,
while you remain, and grow.

I planted you – a twig – a dozen years ago.
Now a high dome of green above me,
your trunk is thicker than mine.
In heat that wilts me, you stand.
Quietly you stand.
Simply you stand.
A creature of an opposite nature,
passively yet powerfully alive,
you stand.

These amputations are intended to be kind.
I imagine it’s like cutting hair, or finger nails,
but I can’t be sure.
Your shape is your own design
compromised to my aesthetic –
not forgetting the tilt
imposed by the sun in the north,
and the south wind.

I think to improve you – you do not contradict.
Your arms sway in air and light.
Your feet grip the earth.
How long will you stand?
Surely long after my fall – and longer still.
You shoot out new growth (a hint of defiance?)
and slowly grow over the wounds I inflict,
and forget.
How do I judge myself superior?

Your independence unnerves me.
Is it possible that you are unaware of me,
while in my mind you glow
like green fire?
Am I a ghost, invisible to you?
A garden poltergeist,
dispensing consequences?
Some capricious god,
providing, and taking away?