If you are a flower 

but decide one day

 that you would like to be

an entire tree

how long does it take you

to change your roots?

How long does it take you 

to accumulate the rings that mean years

when you are driven only 

by fervent desire,

willing to break anything,

willing to break the boundaries of time?

How long does it take to learn 

to tower, to become a canopy,

a refuge, a shadow?

How long does it take 

from the moment you become 

the home of one small bee

to the moment you become 

a home to hundreds?

Ants and birds and squirrels

and moss and fungi

and the noises and the warmth 

of every new day,

and flowers of your own.

How long does it take 

between being one thing

and becoming another?

And how long does it take 

before everything inevitably reverts,

and you find yourself 

smaller, more basic, a simple, 

beautiful, petalled thing

with no rough bark,

no nest in your branches—

only the truth

that you strove so hard 

to leave behind.