Nature Boy

By Jessica Lee

My life in a word?

Misapprehension.

As a boy,

there was a wood

behind our 1950s split-level.

I mistook the wood

for a dark forest.

I miscast myself

as its brave guardian.

Of the woods' wonders,

it was the trees'

quiet stature

that ensnared me.

I spent my childhood

pulling vines from trees.

A tree may weather any storm.

It may lose

leaf,

limb,

or branch.

What makes

a vine?

No—

not cunning.

Its patience.

But mine was

a practiced eye.

I witnessed the killer

stalking its victim.

The vine ascends.

Slowly.

Patiently.

The tree,

defenseless,

awaits the die cast.

You ask,

"Is the vine mad?!

Surely it must know

that in killing the tree,

it dooms itself."

My reply?

Even the vine

bewails its nature.

With wind,

sun,

and rain,

the tree withers.

And then,

there is only the vine.

And I watched

my daughter grow.