Chance

I am simply a tree that has been transplanted location to location in order to bear fruit. The indecisive nature of the sun’s rays is your shovel and my pants are wet because you have not noticed how root bound I am.  With each hole you place me in there is a chance for complete disaster. But I succeed because your knowledgeable of climates and fertilizer. 

It is my responsibility to grow hearty leaves and branches towards the sun.  Questioning my direction and drawing conclusions about the nature of my outreach is something your inexperienced in. Your job is to keep people off the branches.  There have been instances where you have failed me and they were broken.  You tried to solve this issue by putting up a fence but that only blocked out photosynthesis. With no concern for broken branches your lazy rope swing like mind succeeds in eating fruit but has no need to follow the path of the sun.

I took one of my branches, you know  the one you wanted trimmed from several summers ago.  I gave your precious,  recently stained fence a peace of mind, SLAM with all the forces of nature behind me.

Now out of reach, the clouds disappeared beyond the permission of the sun.  The earth had been up rooted as fence posts laughed at their intention. The new arrival of photosynthesis seemed to accelerate time towards its normal collective.  My branches were only a copy of some previous direction and they made excuses for what they saw as a location. Mounds of fertilizer and beyond that fields of trees with missing branches. I was the only one alive.