The storm left a scar this time.
The splintered debris
could be cleared and tossed,
collateral in anaerobic refuse,
forever gasping, torn and discarded.
Or, we can graft and mend,
consistent, reciprocal, and
rooted with growth rings,
pliant to spring and summer, yet
hardy to fire and drought.
I’ve dallied under the canopy,
cradled the tender leaves,
and dug my naked toes
into the cooling, fertile soil.
I am growing infinite.
No, I don’t perceive the same as before.
Has your view unfurled, as well?
Can you see the forest, or just the trees?
-Melissa Donley