by Carolin Messier
It seems a carefree life
to be a plant, serenely rooted,
with branches and leaves spread wide.
But we can never know
the troubles of another.
The plant has its own.
Its roots stretch through gravel and concrete
searching for water
and true soil to cling to.
Does it feel pain
when the wind bends its branches
back upon themselves?
It has no way to seek shelter
or carry its home as does the snail
who eats its leaves.
It might prefer to remain a seed
or keep its buds clenched tight,
as I want to turn away
from my fears
and hold onto
the smallness of my world.
But if it endures
the bite of the root weevil,
a winter drought, or late freeze,
it cannot stay furled.
If it is kissed by the spring sun
it is compelled to let go of what it was
for what it will become.