The Patience of a Tree

 



The Patience of a Tree

By Thea Clarkberg


Two paths diverged beneath my feet—

One paved, and one muddy, off the beat.

I left the cars and bustling street

To find a stream, a would-be retreat.


Its waters were choked with plastic and waste,

Ignored by those who walked on in haste.

Among the muck, an egret white

Stood still, a fragile, ghostly sight.

It flew away as I drew near,

Its instinct sharp, its path so clear.


What was that sickly sweetness in the air?

The stench of death was everywhere.

I saw ahead a wolf or dog, hard to tell,

Its teeth gleaming white in a sunken shell.


I passed it by and did not stay,

But the path just stopped and fell away.

Some draft of a park the city had planned—

Now swallowed up by brambled land.


I stood where trail met thorn and stone,

Staring at trash the world disowned.

The highway thundered just overhead,

While the water below ran thick and dead.


Oh world, I cried, what have we done?

We’ve scorched the soil and blocked the sun.

We pass each other, masked and blind,

Afraid to show the self we cannot find.


This ground! This soil beneath our toes!

It sings the song the body knows.

Yet still we feast on soulless meals,

And scroll to dull the pain we feel.


Was this descent our destined fate,

A Malthusian design we can’t escape?

Are cycles carved in nature’s code—

Each rise and fall a set threshold?


The lash, the chain, the silent scream,

Are these the bones of mankind’s dream?

Or can the pendulum ascend,

And bend toward justice in the end?


Then I saw the tree, long stripped and bare,

Its broken trunk exposed to air.

Still green arose from roots below,

A sign that death is not the end we know.

As sure as Earth tilts back to light,

New growth will rise to claim its right.


For if I care for dying streams,

Then others too must share these dreams.

We rise in joyous, growing bands—

Rebel witches with dirt on our hands.


The egret returns, her wings still white,

Alive, aloft in fleeting light.

She carries something soft and free—

You and me, and the patience of a tree. 


--


This poem was created in collaboration with AI. While the themes, structure, and voice were created by the human author, some phrasing, rhyme, and stylistic suggestions were supported through AI brainstorming. The final poem reflects a partnership between human intention and digital ideation. Image generated by AI.

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