At birth we are saplings;
absorbing and sponge-like;
anchored by flimsy roots.
Each developing child is a sliver,
a woodchip,
a branch.
We send our saplings to schools
to be stripped of their bark
and pounded into smooth identical geometrical shapes;
shapes incapable of stretches and growth.
These equations and grammaticals add shape,
not depth, so simple
simple enough to identify our souls
with a string of numbers and letters.
I was born a sapling,
born to stretch, twist,
reach for illumination; fueling the roots
from which I sprang.
Why do these axes
clad in their glasses
want to beat me into factory form?
We should be watered and nursed
until our trunks grow rings
incapable of calculation;
Teach me to grow toward the sun,
and not to become a fragrant product.
Teach me to drop fruits of wisdom
and throw flowers;
for apples can only drop
from fruitful trees.