Tiny Bites
in the fall
metal jaws take
much needed tiny bites
sprawling mesquite branches
are tided, no longer
rub the roofline raw
the result?
this spring, most unexpectedly,
each nibbled nub is dead
I ponder this tragedy.
when society deems
my emotional sprawl
unseemly
my reaching, grasping
messy and unbecoming
shall I be nipped?
my soul tamed, tidied
no longer rubbing the wrong way?
or
will I recognize these tiny bites
lead to death, remove myself
from jaws of judgment
strive to stretch
bloom
give shade, shelter
to all who have need
of my wild?
