A silly poem about holiday weight
Do you think that trees stand sideways
Look into mirrors
Their shirts and ask themselves
Well, where did all this come from?
Do they contemplate their growth rings? Wish there were less? Count a burn scar as a blemish?
Or do they already know, in their quiet wisdom, that we get wider with life every year and this is the order of things
when we can stretch to the light with our adorned branches
and feel the tickle of a breeze or the tease of a raindrop on leaves,
stretch our roots into the fragrant soil like a cat waking up from a sun-kissed nap
Would we fret about our growing middles
When life is the thing
that made us
soft in the first place?