daily poem

This tree grows down, roots twirling and
threading through the dirt and water
darkness of death. A different stalk
peels dirt aside, to find
air.  There are so many growing toward
a dark sustenance, so many
 reaching for sun.

Every year, fragile shapes uncurl,
exposing shiny green faces to rain
and wind. Green leaves overtaking every
window, every landscape. Then, the slow
brown curling, the dusty face, the
yellow falling.

You help me, tree, by your flowering, by
your seasons of stripped down fallowness.
You extend the same invitation year after
year. Once again, I have only been loyal
to the daily choice. I do not remain
true to you.