We all start out as small, scattered seeds until we learn to grow roots and discover ourselves. Our journeys in life remind us, constantly, of those roots even as the tree of our identity and self-awareness branches out and sprouts leaves. One day the tree with its hollow bark meets its end; perhaps only to remain immortalized, unforgotten in the wood-paneled flooring floor of an art museum — far away from where the little seed first saw dawn break. Where did those roots end up? Do they leave them behind in the ground when they anatomize the questions of identity, of a meaningful life?
I wrote the poem that follows when the woodenness of life and the unrootedness of my existence fertilized the spring of my imagination :
At the end of life’s day
Turning around , I glanced in dismay –
All was disarray , was all disarray?
But on the morn of that day
I had drifted in foolish hope’s sway;
Noon set stage for life’s cruel play
I stumbled, arose, on that path, astray.
At dusk , the sun but a bleak ray
I pleaded it, stay, oh longer stay.
On that road, I heard myself say
This path long, such agony, some allay
Despair not, the same is another’s way.
As I reached the end of life’s day,
All was disarray , but in such beauty it lay.