It sprouts like a seedling in the soil of my mind
Growing until its leafy branches blot out all thought
Its roots hold ideas in a never-breaking bind
Absorbing all the nutrients my focus has sought
To reach the ideas, I pry through the roots
The patchy, flaky bark tough on my skin
I kill the tree to harvest its fruits
The plump, tart sweetness sadness’s twin
Gentle rustling of its leaves
Paints patterns over my eyes
Stealing my judgment like ovate thieves
Stretching past the skies...
No limits can stop this sapling’s growth
But the gardener and soil
Climb its branches beyond all heights
Start, and you must embroil
The fruits of the tree may be of low grade
But at least you have many
How do I make lemonade
When life doesn’t give me any?
Buried under the earthy soil,
There is an end to this night
How can Maple spread her wings
When she is afraid of the light?
The sound of absolute solitude
Waits for me to speak
I cannot hear the prelude
If the bird does not open its beak
Thunberg has an ivy vine
Suzuki has a cockscomb
But my seedling is all mine
Svalbard is just its home
Your seedling is not a tree
It will sprout into a rose
Ideas bursting to be free
Until it’s cultivated, nobody knows…
In an empty nation,
Veni, vidi, vici
The tree of inspiration
Is all that I can see.
Kehan Katherine Duan