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.
.
.
.
