Published on: 2/3/2010
Advice to Parents

I have the tree everyone on my street hates.
The same tree the builder planted in every yard,
but mine is wild and gangly, a shock of twigs
and branches, with acorns that dangle freely.
The problem is that my tree resides in an area
that seeks conformity, where every plant must
be pruned and trimmed. Branches must be high,
so folks who don't watch where they're walking
won't get poked in the forehead or eye. My tree is not
a pretty tree with its thrust and parry beyond boundaries
of acceptability. It gropes into spaces that interfere
with UPS or FEDEX trucks with drivers in conforming
uniforms delivering conforming packages to tan homes.
My tree dares to poke leaves into spaces which defy
the sheer madness of conformity. Its gathering of Spanish
and ball moss has choked the life out of smaller branches,
in a place where death is not allowed. If my tree could talk
it would not be in a shameful whisper. Nor would it bore us
in some cloned monotone. It would shout and scream:
"Look at me, with my gnarly bark and scraggly tentacles,
my unkempt beard! Gaze upon the glory of my wildness."