Huddled
I once heard that a tree
doesn’t know it’s a tree,
doesn’t see its leaves of lies
floating down,
littering the ground
littering the ground
with its deception.
It doesn’t see its poisonous bark
sucking the life from the innocent
woodland creatures which feed on it,
or the upheaval and destruction
created by the prying,
far-reaching fingers of its roots.
And as the rain begins to fall harder,
the tree reaches out its arms
to shelter the plants beneath,
but they only shrink back
and venture out into the storm,
alone, but together.
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