Uprooted

I planted my roots in you, and drank deep.

I was a small sapling, spry and eager to grow, and you were my nurturing soil, ever present and ever providing. As the sun hit our meadow, we would revel in its warmth, hugging closely together;

inseparable.

My roots grew, ever deeper, ever more complex, and they were met by nourishment and embrace as you opened your heart to me.

I planted my roots in you, and drank deep.

You fed me and sustained me, and I grew tall and strong. I reached heights I couldn’t imagine, saw sights I’d only dreamed of. And when the ax, the tooth, the beak tried to wound me, you gave me the nutrients to mend those wounds, to heal and continue on.

I planted my roots in you, and drank deep.

But as I grew tall, I grew distant. So far away, in another world, I forgot your embrace and your warmth. The sun would bathe me, and a transpired recollection would pull me back to you;

but I couldn’t find a way to share the sun. I’d package up pieces and send it to you,

deep

down

into my roots, but you’d get a little bundle of broken memories and could-have-beens instead of what you really wanted:

to be present, in that moment, with me.

I planted my roots in you, and drank deep.

And I drank, and I drank, and I took everything you had to give. You never stopped pouring out, and I was selfish and insatiable.

Now, you lay cold and dry, barely clinging together, wondering why you’ve given everything just to be drained and forgotten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And so far away, I wonder how I let this happen, how I stopped giving back; how I took advantage of everything you are and how I channeled my wounds into you instead of truly healing.

I planted my roots in you, and drank deep.

And now my foundation cannot sustain me, and my roots are unearthed. My bark is asunder, seeping, irreparable, and the forest wishes to reclaim me.

The sickening creak of my upheaval reminds me that I am no more; that I will fall with a thunderous crash, that I will split and splinter and break. If I have grown too hard, I will sit, alone and lifeless, until I am devoured by fire and insect.

But if somehow I have learned your compassion, your nurturing nature, I will rot away and become the soil for another. Perhaps they will prevail where I faltered, and somehow this symbiosis will live long, until we are the oldest part of a vast forest;

bearing scars and the weight of years, but always basking in the sun together.