The Same Tree

just different weather

I have this compulsion to talk about each post. This was just another musing from porch sitting, we are at the end of Spring here and I just sat in wonder about how the trees are unrecognizable from two months ago. I thought I could write a poem, it fell a little short but I still like it and wanted to share. Maybe I will come back to it and shape it into a poem, 

I would like that. 
Please enjoy.

We change. We shift. We show up in pieces, moods, roles—but maybe that’s not deception. Maybe it’s weather. Maybe it’s all part of being rooted in something deeper than performance.

What if I’m not wearing masks?

What if I’m just the same tree
in different weather?

In the sun, I’m laughing.
In the rain, I’m quiet.
In the wind, I’m restless.
In the snow, I ache.
And in the night, maybe I don’t say much at all.

But I’m the same tree.

With leaves, without leaves.
Full of fruit, or bare-branched and waiting,
Reaching, even when I don’t look like I am.

So why do we keep asking which version is real?
Why do we keep pruning parts of ourselves,
trying to grow only in one direction?

What if nothing’s missing?

What if the stillness and the storm
are both part of the same life?

And what if we stopped apologizing for our seasons?


With me if you like - 
a breath in...
a breath out...