My Father, the Carpenter, and I am Not a Tree.
I have spent my life apologizing
For having seasons of growth
and of dormancy
I never have time to become woody, I am too ever-changing.
Maybe if I were not something that required eternal metamorphosis,
My father would have looked at me.
He views my ability to adapt
As an instability
A grievous inconsistency
Maybe if I were able to be still long enough to become woody,
Then he would find beauty in me,
In my ruggedness
And my strength
Instead of being this stringy creature
That climbs and vines
And dies back to roots
During internal wintertimes
I sway easily in the wind,
It moves me around!
And I tremble and shake
Wishing for the ground
But then, I’m there
Beneath the soil
And only want the sun
Maybe, if I were tall
And cast shadows long
He’d believe I had a spine
He’d believe I could be strong
But I am just a simple vine
That flowers in the sun
I’m glad, because if I were a tree
Strong, tall, and proud,
He’d surely chop me down.
written January, 2025
This collection of blog posts will include poetry, retellings, introspection, and train-of-thought additions until I decide I have got it all out and can breathe. I recently published a poetry book which coincides — My Father, the Mountain — and you can find more information and follow the blog at http://www.faunalewiswrites.com
Fauna Lewis Writes 