Roots

This tree does not grow straight
but arcs and bends
honouring its earthly pact

Likewise, lives are not line props
not linear answers or roads of crow

Rather, we are shaped to wend and roll
haywire, globose, melding and merging
doubling back to blend and kneed

We are guardians of an eccentric past
seasoned by inaccuracies
rendered imperfectly real
by our inconsistent insistence

If we continue to sway this way
by the time we reach a round return to here
I will be knotted and gnarled
you may be old, softened or rotten

But we are not arrows shot by a bow
destined to forsake our roots
so we will likely cross again
I understand that now.