I know a man who sheds leaves.
They grow in his hair, in the bark on his face,
and they drop in the fall
when he shivers in the cold
and they rustle out of his sleeves. 

With his spine slightly bent t'wards the rising sun
he's the stature of an overgrown weed.
And he wobbles in the wind,
digs his roots further in, 
and stands firm and stoic as a tree.

He's one with nature, and we pass them both by,
and he does not stop us, but lives his life
as a pebble in the thrashing river.

Why ever would he cling to her,
yet never do a thing on earth
worth his weight
to give her?

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Author guidance for This poem

I'm irked by people who draw an imaginary line between "nature" and "everything else". Particularly, technology. I would explain my argument to you right here, but I'd rather do it in poetry because, it's just that kind of argument. So sit tight if you're curious what the hell I'm talking about, I'll probably add more poems to this later.

In the meantime, if you'd like to add, be my guest! But try to keep it in the philosophy-of-life category rather than, you know, taking my character literally and writing a narrative about him ;)

updated May 3 '11 by Rac7hel