To be alive!

No blame, no shame, no claim
of vice is cast on a tree when she
feeds her soul, heals every leaf,
soothes each branch sans a fee,
when she lovingly caresses her
roots, fiercely protects her family
without any conscious thought
driving her passionate actions
besides the truest, the greatest
love there was, is, or will ever be:
a love shackled by invisible chains
yet somehow infinitely free, the love
everyone knows and loves but few
can really own, keep, or even see –
the love for the self, the love that
is at once the rarest of creatures
and the most ubiquitous of rains;
When no blame, no shame, no claim
is cast on the tree for choosing
herself even as no one else does,
for protecting herself through
every storm, saving herself from
many a drought, loving herself in
sun and in shadow, why is the flame
of a love that needs no fuel, asks
for no assistance, thrives on its own
questioned when a human holds
it in her palm, cherishes it beyond
any and all possessions: the folds
of a love that is so whole nothing
and no one can hope to make it
more or less so, a love so pure
its iridescence knows no equal,
a love so sure no amount of doubt
can seek to penetrate its walls!
She chooses herself like the tree
does, puts herself at the top of
the list of priorities, trusts the halls
of her spirit before trusting anyone
else, treads the path that is true
to who she was, is, and seeks to be,
sings the songs of this rare loyalty,
unperturbed by the aspersions,
the labels, the envy, the names
they so casually employ to call
her selfish for the unforgivable act
of loving herself in a world where
loving oneself is such an alien
concept it petrifies those who
find themselves in its presence –
akin to a rendezvous with a monster
everyone has heard of but only
a few have seen, like a terrible fall
from which no recovery is possible;
She chooses herself not because
no one else does, nor to spite
anyone, but because to love herself
is to love life, is to be alive beyond
the breathing of her lungs, the
beating of her heart, the meeting
of her veins at the juncture of
their ends and their beginnings,
because to love oneself is so hard
yet so easy it is as if all roads
start from and lead to self-love,
as if every traveller finds a shelter
in the embrace of this soft glove;
The tree does not just survive
and nor does she: both thrive
adorned with the most elusive of
secrets ensconced within their
souls – the precious knowledge that
when you love yourself, that love
grows trees and hope even where
neither is supposed to flourish,
even when sunshine is scarce
and of joy there is a drastic dearth,
even when there is no love to spare
and every fear is brutally laid bare,
even when there is no hope to nourish.