Every tree,
from the first sprout to the oldest oak,
makes slingshots,
crafted to send birds into the sky.
A tree becomes a maker of flight,
its purpose to launch the bird.
A bird is the doppelgänger of the tree,
a secret only I know.
The bird is the soul of the tree,
escaped from its flesh,
a truth the tree knows,
but the bird does not.
A tree does not wish its soul to return to its body,
it does not want to stay like an exile.
To a tree, a bird is like a folding chair,
while the tree is a fixed table.
I’ve never heard it said
that birds came before trees.
Undoubtedly, birds came after trees.
To the tree, the bird is a tree that escaped its roots,
to the bird, the tree is a bird that anchored its roots.
Y or y;
the secret symbol of a bird floating in the air,
Y or y;
the buoy of a tree adrift in the sky.
A bird makes its nest in the tree to find its roots,
and the tree sends the bird away to fly farther.
The bird lives to return to the tree,
while the tree lives to send the bird away.
When the bird never returns,
only then does the tree become whole.
Jennifer Choi is a passionate high school student enrolled at an international school in South Korea. Her love for poetry began at an early age, and she finds inspiration in exploring themes of identity, love, and the complexities of the human experience through her writing.
"Old Oak Tree" by Ken Mattison is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
