Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

An Ageing Tree Decides That She Doesn’t Care If She Is Ageing.

They told me that my leaves had fallen to the ground,
and that all my fruit had gone with them too,
rotting and writhing in the dirt,
drowning in insecure tears from a tree who was mired by missiles since she was just a sapling.

I stopped crying when I realised that my leaves would return,
that my fruit was as rich as the day I was born,
and that the sun shone through my branches,
in the most beautiful way.

I grow, and I go through changes,
but there’s nothing wrong with that.

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