by Jennifer Finley
When you feel like a block of wood
when you used to be a branch whipping
up after a lump of snow slid off you,
what are you supposed to do?
You can't become a tree again. You
can't reattach yourself to where you
came from. Yet, you share the same
bark and pulp.
What does all of this mean? What if,
as a block, you finally get to ride
in the back of a truck? Is it worth
your life to have someone's
fingers wrap around you when you're
separated from yourself?
Yes, I know. We all die eventually.
But you don't want your worth
to depend on whether or not some
one reaches out for you and sees
your beauty among all the other trees.
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Jennifer Finley (formerly Jennifer Greene) is Salish/Chippewa-Cree. She is the author of two books of poetry and a children's book. She's also an award-winning journalist, a yoga enthusiast, and a playwright. Jennifer was born and raised on the Flathead Reservation where she currently resides. Her poems also appear in anthologies including the latest edition of Poems Across the Big Sky.
