My tree of life too often weeps

willowing down toward grounded roots

sustaining all this weight of history.

 

Our tree of life grows up and down,

a tree of cultured composting ground

up through tiny reaching tendrils

laced to root-unwinding system growth,

up toward light and air and breeze

and full-bloomed flower of polyculturing praise.

 

My life tree weeps for fear of death

tear-seeds reining in my soul

winking down through fertile ground

where springs bring hope of day.

 

Not all trees are weeping trees.

We tend to grow near watered streams

flooding nutrintegritative souls

awash in tears

informed by years of self-encultured

sadness ignored by upright stretch

of stronger Yangish stuff,

with dryer roots.

 

My tree of life too often weeps

to grow up as an oak

filled willow to reach around this Earth

and dance with roots

gracefully embracing soulfilled

gravitating rhythms

of regenesis.

 

My tree of life too often weeps to grow.