Myrtle

 

I stand barren until very late spring

in a yard of evergreens and hundred-year oaks

young and a stick figure,

not enough rings under my bark.

 

During winter, I am the sad reminder

that I haven’t grown as much as I wished

The old shrub I gaze upon

promises a couple of robins every year

reminds me

no birds trusted my slender branches with their nest.

In summer I grow ravenously

turning my leaves basil green towards the sun

rapidly stretching my roots in all directions

before the chilly winds knock the effort off my twigs

and I am stalled from my dreams.

 

One day I will be big, great, and strong,

Squirrels will scramble to my trunk without hesitation.

Eagles will fight to house upon by boughs.

I entrust my hope to time.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My community

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