Poem: Family Tree

It is hard to find the words

Of my own herd 

As it is hard to find my way back

To what I’ve known first.

It is hard to brave the earlier branches

Of the same flesh and face

As it is hard to count 

The tree rings that I trace. 

But these are the branches

Emerged from the very soil

Of my bloodline;  

These are the branches 

Belonging to the very clade

Of my lifeline. 

You see, this is no sapling.

I thrive from 

The aged hardwood of centuries 

And roots that thrust overseas;

I reap the opportunities up high 

Because they were sown 

By the forebears who died;

And I climb the beanstalk that

Grows from the ancient premises 

Where my far-fetched existence

Sprouted from its true genesis.  

But still it is hard to find the words

When I’m so far high on the vine,

Gripping and clinging

To the roots and the seedlings,

Reaching for the dwindling vernacular 

Of which my tongue runs dry.