A poem is like a tree:
stuck where it was created, waiting
while receiving what passersby give.
Sometimes, whoever squats on it
gives not suitable compost for growing,
a causal act for sloping to the ground—
the roots ready for the wind death.

A poem is like a tree:
swaying this way and that way
nodding its approval and disapproval
if taken to where the branches meet
the crown or not, for lessons and admiration.
Whoever rushes it to the top,
the branches won’t be there to save it.

A poem is like a tree:
sometimes thin, sometimes thick,
the diameter of its body promises not
of being understood or scolded
by the light necessary to photosynthesize
the human condition as a diet,
for life to be relished and respected.

A poem is like a tree:
it will leave you rooted where you are
or extend your branches for the unknown.
What you grasp or not in the stretch of verses
will thin or thicken the trunk of your soul.
Either way, the wind of trials will bend you
and the triumph is to keep swaying towards life.

Gloria-Gonsalves.com