The trees do not worry
(because they are trees
but also) because there is
an inherent understanding in nature
that twisted limbs, messy patterns,
and simple urges are all part
of the array of time in the woods.
We are not meant to stay tamed
and orderly when we love;
we are not born to a manicured garden,
rather we are born to wild laughter
and astounding possibility
of growth and light and song
that we somehow forget as we learn
the bitterness that life can rain down.
We are lucky if we can still be open
to a wild mess of loving as the trees do,
tangled, reaching, blooming.
The Word Rummager 
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