A soft wind blows through me,
As I stand on a corner,
Of a road,
Where a street begins,
As I turn around the corner.

A beginning,
A place I started long before,
But never quite made it to the end,
Where a tree was just starting to grow.

Something,
had always got in my way.
A bad time,
Or a brief moment of rage.

I would once again,
Be forced to start again.
To once more,
Stand at that corner,
And turn and face that street,
I never had yet finished before.

No matter how many times,
I retraced those things,
The wind still blew,
As it did in the very beginning.

I have not yet finished,
walking that street,
where now that tree,
that was just starting to root,
is now half grown.

I hope once I reach,
the end of the road,
I’ll see the full-grown, bloomed tree,
And not it uprooted,
As I was many times before.

 
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