A Poem about Trees

There I sat

plagued with a pack

of the prickly problems of personhood.

Bills and such

Obligated to trudge 

through those terrible trivial tasks.

I’m imagining 

myself as an elderly

and time-weather towering tree. 

My roots race

At a patient pace

down to detect 

some delectable dirt. 

Sucking water through drit. 

Forest-floor food. 

Mmm, tasty dirt. 

Good dirt. 

Nutrient dense, soft and loamy. 

I’m a happy tree.