sap
here is an old tree
a short, stout boxer
pushing sap from the inside out
like Sisyphus
with his rock and his hill
weary as all hell
but never to be cut down.
old, old, old.
this tree
with its lack of breath
and stifled limbs
doesn't reach far into the sky
but instead knuckles down
further into the ground
as though it is afraid.
this tree
drunk on exhaust fumes
cloaked by layers
of burning cinders
spat on
shat on
pissed on
kissed on.
the never-ending pollutants
have choked this tree
and hid its bark
with a papery sheath of tar.
but I see its sap rising
and oh!
it is a wonder--
these hard golden pieces
the size of snails
straining against the bark
pushing out from the marrow
of its trunk,
this tree
refusing to leave
the soiled arena of the city
pulled into a fight for
being.
the force of nature
that pushes the sap out of this tree
is immeasurable,
there are no drips
no tears and
no weeping--
just brute strength and a
silent reminder:
this tree will win.
© Christy Frisken
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