Trees, My Ilk, a Poem

I am the young tree of all forests,
Dwarfed by the chorus of delicate wooden mammoths,
Hindered from growth by the expanse of their canopy,
Shaded by an uncaring Elder.

My siblings are a multitude,
And relentless, they grow upward.
Some have become behemoths themselves,
But most are like me.

These behemoth brethren befuddle me.
Their maturation secures status quo
By denying their siblings’ destiny
Of Sunlight

But I’m stuck under their canopy.
I can’t move,
Nor is there upward mobility,
That is, not without permission.

When the Earth shrugs the titans topple;
They are reckless in their demise,
Thunderous in their death,
Unless no one is around to hear them.

In the void left behind, I must fight my ilk;
Only one of us may receive Ra’s blessing,
The rest will remain dwarfed
Until the victor, once again, falls.

THus is our cycle of life and death,
unfurling our leaves early into spring to catch sun
Before we are descended into darkness by our elders;
When they fall, we can’t grow in concert.

So we must race one another.

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