Within is planted my sapling,

its nutrients: my love, my dreams.

When I give, it grows.

When I take, it withers.

It begs to not be hewn or burned,

yet, hearts inevitably break,

monarchies of selfishness reign.

Rather, an occasional pruning.

As I set boundaries,

wary of who sits in the shade.

The seasons pass, fertilizer improves.

It begins to bear fruit.

Sweet, yet not too much.

Firm, yet just the right amount.

To me it is the flavor of absolute.

When I starve, I turn in.

when I’m weary, I rest on its trunk.

When I let go, not with whimsy ill-will,

but, give away as if snapping

off a piece of my soul.

Like breaking a loaf in two,

though when you take a bite,

it is my laborous fruit you taste.

Only delicious because of these callaces.

My strength in its sinews.

My thoughts in its branches.

And I leave, or at least honestly effort so,

because although I cannot give my tree,

I can share its seeds.

And if your soil is tilled and soft,

they may be planted deeply,

roots make take hold.

Just as I did so long ago,

when another first said, “I love you,”

and the flavor was so sweet.

Although they strayed, their words departed,

I had become an addict anyways.

Because once you’re made aware

of how delicious it is to give away your heart,

you will want a sapling of your very own.

And it is always planting season.