The Mesquite Tree


Can words possibly twist on paper as you do?
You have no purpose except as metaphor:
Birds will not have you, there is no easy escape,
No fruit, scant shade, only fuel from your destruction,
so you grow relentlessly,
you know no other way.
The energy of you, the souls gathered,
drawn up from the Earth,
pulled in from the sky,
contorting them into confusion;
but I see genius more.
I see courage more.
I see failed attempts hacked off early
that spin you like a tornado
mad gone at the sky.
I see refusal to yield,
pride in what you have become;
should no one else see it, I do.
The other mesquites around me,
made as precise as Bonsai,
trimmed and stunted, useful
as the world would have them be
not a spiral, confused thicket
that is for itself.
So barbarously live,
the rage of your definition
from point source varying abruptly
balancing yourself adjacent,
mocking physics, logic; man broke you so,
nature laughed and you taunted back:
“She has made me as she made me and I am for her.
There is purpose, there is use, there is energy,
genius, courage, madness, pride, rage and laughter;
There will be no yielding.
There will be no despair.
There will be no rush of wind past me;
it will have to fight its way through,
bear itself upon me to pass,
define itself against my being,
as I reach to pull the soul of your breath
in me.”
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