I am the rising sap of the spring tide.
I am rooted in your Earth, once mine.
Planted in a special hole in your cement, so my trunk might grow without buckling your pavement; I would thank you for your courtesy . . . though contending your control.
You lop my boughs from those places that displease you; carve signs deep into my young bark . . . I neither wrestle nor reason with your ways.
I am strong. My stark branches bare and budding in preparation for the coming summer, during which time I will grow, again, to shade those among you who would stand kerbside.
I will outlive you, bearing witness in the meantime to your transitory lives. Although of course you have the power to limit my existence – one chainsaw, one chipper, one man.
I reach anyway, stretch, touching that part of sky that would meet me.
I reach anyway, without pause; I reach.