Tree.

Tree

by james bezerra

It would quite please me

to one day be a tree.

Not quite just yet though.

I still have some small glow

of youth yet to burn;

some glimmer still of hope - or naivety -

that there waits a life of contentment  for me.

If I’m right, then I just might enjoy spending

my golden oak years remembering

what a happy life I had.

But if it turns out that I am wrong

and all these last youth years have gone

unremarked upon by success of happiness,

then I will spend my willow years contemplating

what a tragic waste all of this has been.

.

.

.