A hectic day, east to west, sea of troubles and toil.

On all headings loneliness, sorrow, and anxiety abound.

The earth is serene when I stare at the undersides of trees.

Wind whips, piercing woolen layers, clouds both majestic and ominous.

Winter rages, blue and steely and unending.

The earth is warm when I stare at the undersides of trees.

Enveloped in stone rooted and obdurate, I grow mad for a kind word.

My own choices smother like a tempest; the choices of others are an oncoming train.

The earth is free when I stare at the undersides of trees.

A fool maunders legends, outlandish and obscene.

Yet the people clamor to his hollow temple baying give us a king.

The earth is sane when I stare at the undersides of trees.

Forest stripped of essence, hasty structures contrived too close and too large.

Like aliens the deer wander a place in which for millennia they thrived.

The earth is home when I stare at the undersides of trees.

- The Undersides of Trees, Brandon Dragan