Sun Shines Through It Lone tree. Is that what people see? Scars left by pruning shears, here and here. Branches cracked and torn off by wind, ice. Stunted on this side, standing too tall on that. Thick curved limbs mingled with twigs. Growth nodes that never grew, at waist, chin. Empty spaces glaring, waving flags, drawing pity. Naked places, bare of leaf and chlorophyll. What is this? They ask, fingers jabbing at the void. Why haven’t you fixed that? Hurry up! Hurry up! You’ve missed the spring. Graft something there or regret, be bitter, drink ruin. Is it pride that soul answers “no”? Pride that holds the gap, waits for natural buds to grow? Pride? Fear? Stupidity? That chooses not to force. That wishes for miracles, for grace. That hopes.