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You spread what you think are your wings in an attempt to fly and you feel the roots you never knew you had sink deeper in the soil.
You try to leap off and out of the soil, freeing yourself of everything that keeps you in place and instead of wings, you feel branches unfurl from your sides. They grow crooked and unhindered, reminding you of where your place is. You feel your center thicken and broaden, like the heaviness in your soul, never letting you forget flight wasn’t meant for your kind.
Your leaves fall and you grow them back. Birds nest in you and take flight from you. Weary travelers take shelter under you, resting their tired backs on your never moving trunk. Seasons come and go, you watch numerous flights to and from home, and you gradually accept that maybe, just maybe it is okay to be a tree even if all you ever wanted to be was a bird.
Maybe some people are meant to be a home to those that fly, never flying themselves.
Kim is KimĀ 
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