After The Fire

x9{x>0}

That was how the tree grew

Almost flat, then straight up towards God

Like he wouldn’t notice if the tree snuck up on him

Like we weren’t the only species to try the Babel gambit

I often wondered why the tree grew like so

But then I reasoned don’t question fate

That made a tree so flat but so tall

That a swing could be hung from one of the lower branches with

Enough rope to soar

As if, maybe the tree had reached God

And He, without raising his gaze,

From some very important papers

Simply said

“Thank goodness you’re here. Tell me

Have you ever seen x raised to the ninth power

X being greater than zero”

If you are called to be a street sweeper, be a street sweeper

That tree was called to be a swing

You’d climb as high as you could against the force of the exponential

The rope wouldn’t reach, you’d have to leap

Leap of faith

And trust the fairy dust of dust and sweat to let you fly

Time and tide wait for no man,

And neither did that swing

And when you dragged your feet to stop it

You only kicked up more fairy dust

And you’d stumble off

Coming down with some mysterious Victorian ailment

Making you faint and pale

But you’d make a miraculous recovery by the third act

And be ready for another plunge

On days, when I was feeling quieter

(On days the swing was taken)

I'd sit and watch the tree

I wasn’t waiting for my turn, of course not

Teenagers don’t wait in line for the swing

Teenagers must be casually passing by

And think ‘why not? For old times’ sake’

On days, when I was feeling quieter,

I’d sit and watch the tree

Watch it slowly grow

I’d think of scout leaders and nature books

And the rule of rings per years

And how close the rings on the old stumps were

And wonder how many the tree hid

I never doubted it would outlast me

And my lifespan would be a medium band surrounded on both sides

Maybe God noticed the repeat of history

And smote the lowercase god of the tree,

The nymph, for its hubris

Maybe it was in the wrong place in the wrong time

Or rather just the wrong place,

Time is mainly a measure of the vertical and of the circular for a tree

Maybe the good die young

But I never expected

I never wanted

To outlive that tree

That good, honest tree

So when I wake at one in the morning

Sick for a place that wasn’t my home

But simply The Home

The Family Home

I open a graphing calculator and type in

x9{x>0}

by Lucy Gregory