And, on my walk, of all I see
Among the woodland throng,
I can’t make out a single tree
That could be classed as “wrong”.
Not all are tall and none are straight
And not a few seem dead,
And yet I still appreciate
The many-sided spread.
And, like a tree, although I’ve got
A broken branch or two
And, here and there, a bit of rot,
I look all right to you.
It’s only in this head of mine
That form and being don’t align.
Photo by Dave Reed on Unsplash
Moving on
