A tree on a hill, sits on top of my eye-line.  
Its roots protrude out of the ground round my feet.
The leaves are swept up by the quietest of wind.  
And its trunk is encased in a cold concrete.

But cracking, splitting at the middle it looks weak.
If I could only take a step I would climb this hill.
Or see fully, not through cracks of my sight.
I would open the tree and rearrange its insides.

Oh if I could lift these heavy weights.
Snap the shackles of nature that are sure to trip me.
I’d run like a child, chasing the mild days of summer.
And sit on top of that hill, till my mother would miss me.