A sapling springs from the earth,
Soaking in the possibility and freedom
Of the light and sun,
Only to be covered by a figure’s dark shadow.
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A hand twists it up, down, left and right,
And it grows that way,
Bent and twisted;
Growing sideways instead of up.
Even a slight graze, a subtle touch,
Can drastically change and
Reform the shell of the bark,
Leaving the heartwood forever transfigured.
And the tree stands,
Bent in all directions,
Warped into what the shadow created;
Irreparable damage left on the tree
The small tree withers at night.
The trunk stopped growing long ago,
And the branches are incapable of reaching
To the sky as its neighbors do.
