There the tree with its wrinkled torso
and malformed arms exults; though
headless and legless, it is forever
pointing and bowing to the unseen.
I sit, my back against it, trying to see.
It hunkers down and takes on all
that nature is permitted to give; I
complain of every pain that slinks
inside my bubble. But the tree is not
one to fret the fall, the winter, the
animals, the axe. Were it to fall and
fold me now, would I suddenly see
from some other realm that I was
among the fortunate to have been
planted there where my roots were
free to clutch a place worth clutching?
Would not billions from across the
world trade their lives for mine?
Because I have not wept in waters
not clean enough to drink, I have seen.
Debunking a Harmless Belief