RHYME Poem: Love is no Apple, by Sky Pagani

I sometimes wonder while sitting under
The sputtering shade of a cottonwood;
What would be better, this life as a settler,
Gifted with this mischievous blood,
Or the smooth simplicity of a tree?

It seems to me, apathy is key
To living a life which is without pain,
Without worry and without shame.

Coniferous and I are not so disparate.

A tree grows, In my eyes, just as I do.
They strive to survive, to accomplish tasks,
To reproduce using their tender fruit… Yet,
They are completely unaware of their acts.

But, then I ask, Darling, “are they happy?”.
I know maples are surely sappy,
Producing sweet syrup for us to eat,
And supple shade for this poet’s retreat,
Alas…
They are completely disconnected.
All an all, Gall’s do not love their fruit
They grow their sweet produce unaffected
By whether or not they go unconsumed.

But us?
Not so much, it’s not so plumb.
We’re spiritual and physical creatures
Blessed by fate with sentimental features
Which gifts me the sensitivities for love.
Hmm…
Musing what truly matters to me:

Reflecting honestly on you, Darling,
No Baum’s beauty could ever compare,
To the sensations of petting your hair.
Caring for you, and constructing our dreams,
Seeing Juniper as more than a tree;
These, my love, are my upholdings against strife
My coat in the cold, and comfort in life.

It is true,
A tree is effectively dead inside
The core which supports their many branches,
And braves the weight of great avalanches,
Is cold, alone, and unalive.

While what supports me
Is love and amnesty:
An uncrackable combination
Filled with mischievous circulation
Strong enough to last any tragedy.

So when a cold winter blows
One winter
A tall Oak may splinter
Down its center,
While our love
Will last forever.
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