The tree in my backyard

Slowly,
The creases of my hand
Are erasing the imprints
Of the fingers I’d clench
When I was a child.
The tree in my backyard
Is also shedding leaves
As if ready
To pass the baton
And let them fly.

Slowly,
I’m stepping into a world
Of the unknown,
Of mystical beauty
Of (delusional) freedom.
Those fruits
Have also fallen
On the barren land
Unwary of strong winds
Careless of the season to come.

And oh, I guess
The time it takes
To grow into something
From nothing
Is as endless as
The depth of
The Mariana Trench, or,
The points on
A number scale
But look –

That slowly,
My hands got a grip
On the bitter-sweet future
On the ladder to the sky.
I see a sapling
Beside that tree
The leaves of which
Will soon be
Preparing to fly.