At night, their trunks
Form arches, and not columns,
That bend across the level line
Of earth that even distantly
Reveals their grotesque curve.
Yet growing on a hill
Has no ups or downs,
And branch against cloud
Is often seen…
But only by standing underneath.
The only way left for that tree
Is day by day to add an inch
And overstretching
Crash into the pond
To spite Fate.
I am that tree.
My own life’s roots are shallow—
Not anchored in the bedrock beneath,
Not holding firmly.
But while life is in the veins
And the veins above the ground
The sideways of my life
Might one night turn
To comet’s streak…
And falling I could leave the hill
Like Atlas holding up the sky.
