Parable of the Bramble

In wanting a king, the trees chose
the bramble.

The bramble is rampant now, thorns
and roots a tangled legacy,

taking up all the sunlight.
I pity the trees, I fear for the trees,

I wonder, which am I, tree
or bramble? How will I find pity

and fear for the bramble as I walk
through the woods in spring with a scythe?

We will wear long sleeves and thick gloves,
do our necessary work

against the invasion of the bramble, yes.
Or we will come after the experts

to drag out the mess and burn it at the edge
as we restore woodland and prairie.

I see there is work to do, and I hope to find
my proper place in it, as olive, fig,

and grape knew who they were and what to do
instead of dominance: produce

oil, fruit, and wine. But we all need tending,
nurturing, pruning. Even the bramble,

loved and tended, might bring us berries—
for the butterfly and bird,

for the muddled cocktail at the outdoor café!
Should I stop loving the bramble

because it was also being what it was? No,
it hid the rabbit and the thrush,

and these I love, along with the berry.
Let me be alert and attentive,

walking through the woods, let me not
ignore the danger, but let me not

hate the bramble. See it for what it is,
and what I am, friend or foe

as needed, to restore the balance, and live
beside each other in sun and rain.

— Babs