Every morning, I gaze around

At my enviable surroundings.

The majestic trees with their emerald leaves,

Strong, thick branches unmoved by the amicable breeze,

Buds soaked with violet, transforming elegantly

Into cloud-white petals.

And everyday, I am crushed completely

By the fact

That I am not worthy of a presence in this garden.

I sit, ashamed,

Hundreds of feet, or so it seems,

From the arched tips

Of the soft and vibrant hands

Of healthy, yellow-speckled leaves,

Heartily spewing from the narrow peaks

Of honey brown branches,

Branches that escalate quickly

Into solid, round arms,

Arms that lead the way

To the brazen, proud trunk,

Wrinkly and rough,

Of every tree in this garden,

Every tree but me.

And I look down at myself,

Although there’s not much to see,

And sigh at my peeling skin,

Frown at the brevity of my trunk,

And almost laugh at the weak composure

Of my stringy, pathetic arms,

Incapable of summoning

Even the skimpiest of leaves

From their puny growth.

And I look,

Every day,

Morning after morning,

Sunrise after sunrise,

Asking myself what right do I have

To receive the same sunlight

As those magnificent trees in the garden,

When I myself am so unworthy

And so unimpressive?

What right do I have

To absorb those covetable rays,

And directly impinge

On the immortal growth

Of my more deserving counterparts,

Knowing entirely

That no matter how much sunlight,

No matter how much water I recieve,

No matter how much I beg,

Plead,

And cry,

No new growth will appease me?

Yet for some reason,

Every day,

I look out,

Admiringly,

Jealously,

Angrily,

At the immeasurable beauty of the garden.

And on one such day,

As I begin my daily routine

Of pining over my modest roots,

A new sight emerges,

Different

From the constant musical chatter of the birds,

From the pretentious buzz of the bumblebees,

From the disruptive hum of the insects

That defile our leaves.

Duller, somehow,

Less authoritative in presence,

As if by sound only

It is not worthy of entering our garden.

A sun-soaked red,

Perhaps never once vivid,

And certainly never to be again,

Enters my field of vision.

Familiar dried dirt,

Clouding its surface

With the apparent permanence

Of the charred edges of a burnt cookie,

Permeates the vehicle,

A physical mark

Of its disrepair.

In other words, it is

Ordinary.

Unimpressive.

Unmajestic, outdated, irrelevant.

The man who steps out of the car

Is equally unimposing,

His stature small but broad,

His oversized cowboy hat hanging haphazardly

By an unmatching cord on his neck,

As there’s no need for it

In the shade of the grandiose trees.

His boots are as dusty and uninteresting

As his entire unexpected appearance in our garden.

I watch as his boots step closer,

See the deep and unforgiving marks

They leave on the wet dirt

Not nearly far enough away from me

And think of how easily

Such dull and unexciting boots

Worn by such a dull and unexciting man

Could crush me completely,

Trample me without a second thought.

One, two, three dusty steps and all would be over.

It could be that easy,

I think to myself.

He wouldn’t even see me,

I realize in a fright.

It would be like I was never here.

No more stingy rays of sunlight

Would waste their precious energy on me,

No more elusive raindrops

Would be forced to whisper their

Covetable yet tired life-bringing secrets to me

As they trickle down the gluttonous branches

Of the trees more important than I

To land on my unappreciative, unworthy face.

With three steps, my garden

Would become

Their garden.

His steps are louder now,

His distance narrowing like the sun’s rays on the horizon.

He doesn’t see me,

I think.

He doesn’t see me,

I realize hopelessly,

He doesn’t see me,

I repeat as his footsteps stop,

Not more than a yard away from me, and

Halt their dirge.

I barely understand why,

Until I hear him exhale,

With unbelievable awe and wonder,

“What do we have here?”

Two hands reach down and caress my barren branches.

His hands graze my trunk

And to both of our astonishment,

It is surprisingly sturdy.