Longing to Be Like a Tree

Be Tree

a poem

I am a leaf. And I am tired. Tired of the wind's hands. Tired of going where I never chose.

The wind does not ask. It takes. I go. I go. I go.

My bones are loose from all this leaving. My hands remember nothing solid. I wake and I do not know which way is forward, which way is home.

I have flown so long I forgot what ground feels like.

But sometimes— in the quiet of 3 AM— I feel it. A pull. Downward. Like something in me remembers earth. Remembers stillness. Remembers home.

So I want to be a tree.

Not a leaf. Not a branch that cracks. A tree.

I want to grow deep. So deep that the wind must go around. I want the storm to pass and find me still here. Still standing. Still me.

I want to close my eyes and know where I am— not by the wind, but by the earth beneath me.

I want to stop flying. I want to stop drifting. I want to stop surviving the wind and start living in my soil.

And I want to bear fruit. Delicious fruit. Nutritious fruit.

I imagine someone— tired like me, lost like me— passing by. They reach up. They taste. And for one moment, they forget they are lost. They just feel full. They just feel held.

That is what I want. To hold someone without touching them. To feed someone without speaking.

But I have no soil. I have no roots. I have no place.

That is the nightmare. Not the wind. Not the chaos. The not-having.

I am a leaf who dreams of being a tree but has never touched the ground.

So I spin. I wait. I ache. I hope. And I am so tired of hoping.

But I still do.

Because what else is there when you're flying and you don't want to fly anymore?

Some nights I dream I am already a tree. My feet are roots. My arms are branches. I feel the earth hold me like a mother holds a child. And I weep— not from sadness, but from relief.

Then I wake. And I am still a leaf. And the wind is still blowing. And I am still nowhere.

I want to be a tree. I want to be still. I want to bear fruit. I want my roots to go down and my branches to go out. I want to give shade. I want to give rest. I want to give something that outlasts me.

Let another tree grow from me. Let it grow deep. Let it bear fruit. Let it be what I am trying to be.

And when I am finally a tree— when my roots are deep and my fruit is sweet— I will stand and I will give. And I will not move for anything.

The wind will come. And I will stand. The storm will come. And I will stand. Time will come. And I will stand.

Until I become soil myself. And from my soil, another tree grows.

So I pray— to myself, to the earth, to whatever hears:

Be tree. Be tree. Be tree.

Let me stop flying. Let me stay. Let me be still. Let me be home.

Be tree.

— Puran Adhikari