Raised to be a Tree

Grown in a greenhouse,

Raised to be a tree.

Confined in this glass prison,

Needing to be free

Although I have everything I could need or want my leaves are not green

My roots are not deep and my heart is not clean.

Nourished and maintained height and width is added each day.

Pruned and groomed, forced in this place to stay.

Grown in a greenhouse,

Raised to be a tree.

Confined in this glass prison,

Needing to be free

I break away from my confinement and solitude,

Break away from my forest family only to be wooed,

By the freshness of outside air and its variety

Longing to become a part of my own individual society.

No tree is an island.

Written by Siobhan Hendricks

Hour Hand

My hand is an hour glass and the sand is slipping through,

Not into another chamber but away from me.

Some on the ground,

Some blown in the wind,

Some grains even hit my shoe.

As I watch the times pass and slip through my fingers

And sand particles float away, I realise that unlike a true hour glass these grains will be lost forever,

Lost time.

If I could chase the wind I would, but who can chase the wind?

If my fingers could grasp the specs on the ground I’d try to salvage what is left of what I have wasted.

It is useless, a wasted effort.

Time is destined to pass,

And my hands where never made to hold onto time,

So I must learn to let go, and to walk with this cargo.

For if I do not, I will spend my whole life watching each grain slip through my finger tips,

Into the wind,

Onto the ground,

Gone.

Written By Siobhan Hendricks