A tree on a hill.

Not on the crest, just on the side.

There are many other trees

higher up, lower down.

I will never be a huge tree;

just a tree!

 

A breeze wafts, my leaves flutter.

A wind blows, my branches move

and my leaves speak.

A gale blasts and my twigs fall,

my leaves are rent.

 

The rain slants!

It is wet, it cleans

but I do not understand this.

I do not care anyway.

It happens!

 

I am a tree.

Nothing more.

Only small plants are less.

I do not think.

I do not care.

It does not matter;

for I am just a tree.

 

David Garlick,  Puerto Vallarta, February 2001.