Winds have bowed him awkwardly,
Casting him askew to the others.
Maybe, though, he’s just leavesdropping,
Inserting himself into the discussion between
The sweet magnolia and the mighty oak
Across the way, shaking boughs and
Whispering poetry, listening for the owl.
Maybe he’s yearning for the lake,
Hoping for a cool breeze and a sip of water,
Or perhaps, like you, he’s just weary and
Seeks the loving arms of a companion.
Who am I to judge this leaning tree?
I’ve leaned too, in my day, and
Will again in the days to come.