Trees like traveling
the day when it will set out on its journey,
as it stands, rooted in one place,
invites insects and the wind,
hurries to bear fruit,
“somewhere far away,”
“somewhere far away.”
At last the birds peck at its fruit
and the wild beasts come to nibble.
A tree needs no backpack, no suitcase, no passport to travel.
It hitches a ride on a bird’s belly,
stealthily making its own airship,
and, when the day comes, it sets out abruptly,
into the sky.
The seed falls.
“Here’s a good place. I can see a lake.
I’ll stay here for a while.”
It becomes a seedling and puts down roots
and, like the tree from which it came,
it too begins to dream of the day it will set out on its own journey.
When I touch the trunk of a tree
I understand how it aches:
how it loves to travel
how it yearns to wander
how it writhes, longing to be a nomad.