Not just my thoughts, as leaves at the mercy of wind and rain or snow, who tumble and lift and twist but will not release from my branch. Sometimes bright green or vibrant or not at all.
Not just my desires as branches solid yet pliable and willing, lifting and sagging, bending with that wind and that rain. Sometimes breaking in dispare from a storm or the weight of snow.
Not just my body as a trunk, the years adding in rings, the bark hardening and becoming brittle. Sometimes eaten or pecked at devoured or decayed.
Not just my heart as roots wound and thick, outstretched, breaking the hardened soil and grounding me to the earth. Sometimes cut or pruned from negativity, making them turn and curl like toes grasping for the moment.
No. I am the tree, solid and tall, whole in all seasons and all weather.