what little grows here

What little grows here now needs a lot of care.

There used to live a thick tree, with chipped and stoney bark,
roots the size of a man's leg, entrenched down and coursing through the warm grip of earth.
The world and the tree would hold each other.
They used to breath and sway with the wind.
The tree was strong, the earth was loyal.
But the tree's biggest flaw was that it clung to too much,
tried to grasp too deep.
So when the storm came, when the sky opened, the weathered world couldn't handle it.
The beautiful earth found the grip of the tree too much.
It had to let go.
And that tree fell, splintered and the trunk broke like a heart.

So what's left are the tiny seeds of that tree
and an earth not quite ready.
Despite the soil's stern feel, the tree still lives through tiny sprouts.
And still finds the earth.
And still reaches out it's roots like hands,
hoping to find the grasp back.
Hoping the dirt will interlace it's fingers
and the two will find their home again.
It'll just be different.

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.