Rootless
I am the tree that grew without earth,
whose roots drank cloud and whose trunk split moonlight.
Once I envied the orchards
their grounded certainty,
their patient turning of seasons.
But the soil was never mine.
So I rose.
Not by strength,
but by surrender
for what cannot cling must drift.
My branches hold no fruit;
my leaves no shade.
Yet travelers rest beneath me
and call it shelter,
not knowing I lean upon nothing.
They reach for me
as if I might lift them,
but I hold nothing;
my embrace is an illusion.
Birds praise my freedom,
never knowing I have nowhere else to be.
Mountains reach for me
as if I might lift them,
but I hold nothing;
my embrace is an illusion.
If you climb me,
you climb only your own longing
for I cast no shadow to guide you.
When I fall,
there will be no crash,
no splinter,
no mourning.
Air unmade me,
air will take me.
And the ground
which never knew my name
will not miss what it never held.
By
Daozuchi
D