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}
