The Woodland

by Renwick Berchild

I am inferior. Let me say it.

Let it roll on my tongue, get pressed to my inner cheek, let it
fall out to the earth, let the solar rays shine on it,
the rain hammer over it,
the soil encapsulate it,
have it arise.

Let me now look at it, see its shape, allow it
to unfurl its leaves, bloom its flowers,
reach for the sky.

Now I see it, and, it is not that strong. I can stamp it out
with the sole of my boot, take a breath
and blow it clean off its roots. It is a feeble thing.

Weak? Unworthy? I am no fool.
My woodland is in the conifers, in the pines: Stamina; Compassion; Glory.

My seeds grow powerful, robust, and tall, or
they do not grow at all.

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