A tree is tall, graceful, strong and straight,

Yet, look closer and you will truly see

A curvature, quite like a figure eight,

As it weaves its way in seeming harmony

Among the leaves and branches many,

Through myriad browns, and grays, and greens.

And in the springtime blooms snow aplenty

Down into the splashing brooks and streams.

Yet when winter draws near and the leaves fall

On the ground, all yellow, orange and red,

The aging branches bend and arch over all,

Tucking in the earth and putting it to bed.

And the snow piles up and up in mounds,

Burying all in white, deadening all sounds.

Straight lines hold our heroic buildings up

With many rivets, welds, and cement.

 Pyramids into the skies erupt,

Through our abilities we fulfill the ascent.

Closer to heaven we climb the stairs

Of straight and narrow construction.

Hoping to hear the angelic blare

Of immaculate human perfection.

Yet over the years, our very dreams,

Our deepest youthful yearnings die,

For the straightest of the lines it seems

Are but a temporary, overriding pride.  

Is there such a thing as a straight line?

Ne’er in nature; only by humankind.