The Introvert Poem by Barry Middleton

The walks I used to take at home
in Mississippi told me more
I think of men and such than all
the chatter of the lecture hall.
My eyes would move from tree to tree
and see a soul in every trunk.
I met the extroverted oak
and thought he did not care for what
I said. He had the brawn to stand
a storm; his roots meandered far
and wide. I said he touched the Earth
too light that way. His pride in such
an insubstantial stay was sure
to be his downfall if indeed
he would not set a deeper tap.
But then my eyes engaged near by
a shattered introverted pine.