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We are so much like the trees.

We mistake their stasis for imprisonment.
Our mobility for freedom.

But we too are deeply rooted.
Bound in place.

Conglomerates of electrons.
Atoms spinning ghost-like
Within the predetermined orbits
Of our hearts’ metaphysics.

On the door of my house
There are no metal bars.

Unlike the trees, I escape daily
Though thousands of years
Of evolution keep me here.

Anthropology. Brain wiring.
Maternal instinct.

It all makes me think of a chunk of tree
I saw once. Trapped like flesh
Through a chain-link fence.

The tree itself, cut down.
No longer there.

Just this remnant torso
Of itself forever caught
Growing towards sunlight.

Escaping through steel.
Imagining it could.

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