I just need you to see this tree.
Or, rather, this picture of this tree,
that I found in the forest,
or that, perhaps more accurately, found me.
I need to you be in awe of it,
this tree that found me,
the way that I am: humbly, and with reverence.
Look at its burned out flesh,
how up close it looks like an elephant’s skin,
thick and pockmarked and full of stories
we could never be so wise to know.
This tree gives not a whit for me.
Doesn’t want to know my name.
Yet grants me peace in the middle of chaos.
Gives me the whispers of guidance:
breathe deep,
hold close,
remember well.
It went through the fire,
which raged and burned and
hollowed it out, which did its flaming best
to murder.
Yet the tree did not die.
It went through the fire,
and kept growing.
The Wandering Introvert 