April 22, 2016

Friday Poetry: A Country Where Many Reside


The octopus tentacles of tree roots
lie flat upon the leaf-strewn soil,
exuding tiny ink-spots of an ant-army:
crawling, scurrying, cargo-bearing
before disappearing inside
their cool, black holes 
of subterranean palaces.

Watching them reminds me that
a tree just does not exist for itself:
actually, it cannot.
That would be far too self indulgent, a selfish act.
It is a country, after all, where numerous citizens reside
and which they call home.

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