I Wish I Was A Tree Poem by Jon Berry

The Trees in the world are like gods to me,
Standing tall, standing strong for all those to see,
Giving us the very air we breathe,
Routed deep in the ground finding strength underneath.

But we saw them down, they never complain
Their wood recycled again and again
We sit on their bodies as ours grow lazy
Stand for as long as a tree? You must be crazy.

From when we're born 'till we die 'Is my cot gunna be oak or my coffin gunna be pine? '
And even we dine with fine wine on marble stained polished pine and mutter to your friends 'Oh by the way….that's mine'

But I'd be a little hacked off if the trees took my blood, pumped it through an engine like diesel, stripped down my legs, used them as a tripod and my torso as the easel, used my fingers as brushes and my skin as the canvas. Rustle it's branches whilst repeating 'I can't hear him complaining' as part of its guilt releasing mantras.

But as I admire the tree, I am of course hypercritically etching onto the paper on a nice wooden table, gazing at the lovely hand made (cough….wooden) conservatory, whilst admiring the garden and whispering with glee, 'I like being human but…. I wish I was a tree'.