we grew together: putting down new roots

When you’re looking up

at the undersides of my leaves,

take time to note the beauty

of my blooming,

but don’t stop,

keep running;

I can grow my own weeds.

There was never enough room

for two

in this soil. Our roots

choked

each other

and neither of us soaked up water

and neither of us grew

up, only sideways,

into one another.

My leaves blocked your sun

and your bark rubbed me wrong.

They planted us together,

said we looked so nice

side by side.

Then we ceased to flower

and even in the spring,

bore bare branches scrapping

at window pains,

begging for breathing space.

When they replanted me,

strong roots were severed,

roots we collectively nourished,

a vast system of interlocking

veins and arteries

bleeding.

But it was not enough to kill me.

They rerooted me and now,

I grow towards the sky

and bloom full.

They marvel at my shade

and wonder

why you grow stunted.