The Nonconformist Culture

A trunk stands tall,
as I try to do.
Its roots fasten tightly
to what does not waver,
with a will to live
stronger than any I’ve witnessed
in humankind.

Resilient.
Forgiving.
Offering a warm embrace
to all who lean upon it.

Its branches stretch toward heaven,
life blooming at its fingertips,
speaking in a language
older than words.
An excess of energy,
given freely—
sustaining others
without question,
without request.

Selfless hands,
forever reaching.
A quiet testament
to the Creator.

A leaf—
so much like a hand.
Veins mirroring my own,
imprinted with a design
no other has carried.
Each one unique,
encoded,
sovereign,
holy—
holier than humans have ever learned to be.

We, humans,
are despicable.
Thieves of breath and blood,
stealing anything that pulses with life.
We take without returning,
feast without gratitude,
forever starving
for “more”.

When will we look down
at what our hands have caused,
sink them back into the soil we’ve tarnished,
and dare to plant again?