Entry 32: Tree

AccidentalPerfectionistBlog

She dances solo

On a patch of grass

Across from the prison wall

 

Birch white, with swirls of gray

Like a couture gown on a Paris runway

She wears no leaves of jewelry

 

Waves her curvaceous branches

Her trunk stretches

Towards the sun

 

She is aglow from within

My throat aches to

Not have the skill

 

To expose her visual beauty

My words are corny

Analogies juvenile

 

I envy the painter

Who shapes and shades

Shadows and highlights

 

All I have areĀ saturated words

Inadequate for

Her Majesty, and I

I am unworthy