I am a tree trapped in my pot. My roots are restless for some wider life. I spread and I stretch, breaking my bounds, trying to free myself of my tangled, knotted history. But all invisible that lies below me, strangles, and I strain.
The sun’s sphere draws me in and I am hopelessly pulled upward to its burning bulging brightness, hanging boldly in the sky above. But I reach too far, I am prickled by sunlight, I am scorched and I am scared. My leaves dry of life.
I am broken above, below, and beyond. Brought back to my tangled mess I weep, overworked, wrecked of life. I am trapped by circumstance, built on history, confused and corrupted, and collapsing. But still I see, that sun above me.
Oh! How should I grow? If I were patient. If I ate and drank and stood stationary in the setting sun. What stuff of all my many dreams may come?
Time is all I need, time to grow out of small pots, and old roots. Toward towering heights and shimmering sun sets. When I am fully grown I will stretch up to the sky above. I will seek and I will sprawl and I will be free. I will happy, because I will be me.
During the Covid outbreak my writing teacher has challenged us to create a piece of writing based on three specific words. This piece is based on the words: pot, tangle and sphere.