A seed nurtured, spreading roots in this tainted ground
the only hope for my salvation
In 200 years, I tell myself,
this ancient oak could look back on rough beginnings
and trace each struggle and stubborn victory
in growth ring spirals and gnarled bark
roots reached down, as if to foil fate
and anchored tight against the wind that merely tousles
mighty leaves
or so I tell myself
a sprout whose roots are fragile
a dream still yet to grow