the window

I would make a mirror
from whatever I
have, so that you can see
that you are not
broken,
that there is nothing
to fix,
that you are not a machine,
to be utilised
or left to rust —
that, as I have told you before,
you are a living tree.

Today it seems to me
that you are a bonsai,
trunk trammelled by wires into tight
stunted twists,
roots trimmed, contained, compressed
in a box,
over-reaching branches
docked.

What is the secret
of the bonsai?

Perhaps it longs
to be a giant tree in a public park,
sheltering all kinds of creatures
from the flensing wind and blast-furnace sun,
spreading a generous mulch of leaves,
throwing up seedlings,
having initials carved in its skin
by random lovers and idlers.

Perhaps it likes
its current situation
on a sunny sill
in a small house,
the nibbles and nips
of its particular custodian,
the measured irrigation,
the admiring apprehension
of visiting connoisseurs.

Or perhaps it yearns
for nothing more
than a way
to open the window,
so it may have
the peppermint mist,
the chilli sun,
and the jasmine midnight moonlight
on its leaves.

(First published in Creatrix)

What do you think?