Fat Man's Dream

There is a tree,
a tree outside my window,
a tree absorbing the late day sun, its nude silvered surface standing alone in this day's first bitter chill,
a tree, at rest in a season that sends snow flurries into the air that swirl and dance with the wind but never fall to the ground.

Its leaves, a distant memory now,
its promised new growth,
its hope for the future.
It stands, simply waiting,
its luck, the weather and the place it takes root,
its girth and height, the measure of its courage,
its flexibility, the key to its longevity.

It needs only what it it given, and
it is enough.

It does not covet or envy as I do.
It has no need to see or be seen.
It bears its scars proudly even as I hide my own away in shame.
It moves with elegance and reason in the wind as my paths are often irrational, awkward and lacking in economy.
Its branches bend gracefully but seldom break, even with the weight of a fallen snow.

It is after all, safely planted, even as I cling to an ever more precarious foothold on this earth.
It is only a tree, and I am not.