The anchor to sink in, the weight
To know what the heavy of not
knowing if you want love
In any elected pattern just to be
left to a wavering flummox
That any iteration is equally
subject to stagnation and mold
Makes one become molasses, to
understand the redwood
How to respond and interpret the
language of the slow growth
The phrases that rip at roots and
saw branches
Like “I am looking for a life
partner” or any sap of certitude
The space around trunks must remain
open, uncrowded
To allow for rings, not for as if varied
species become one
But that the individual remains in
liberty to expand
Independent of the other’s presence
Correspondence, want, demands,
expectations become threats
Constricting the limbs with
underbrush is preparing for a fire
The nature of the forest will leave
the redwood as the saplings scorch
So it is what one must be with the
heavy anchor
Knowing one needs to be spaced out
in the sparse
The occasional owl in the canopy or
wren to nest,
But soon enough seasons change
The timing of a redwood, a fern, a
tortoise, a planet
It is all relative and must be
respected as such
Lonely, thick hubris bark, and to
such an arrogant ancient
Love is such a trivial seed
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