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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