Roots

At birth we are saplings;

absorbing and sponge-like;

anchored by flimsy roots.

Each developing child is a sliver,

a woodchip,

a branch.

We send our saplings to schools

to be stripped of their bark

and pounded into smooth identical geometrical shapes; 

shapes incapable of stretches and growth.

These equations and grammaticals add shape,

not depth, so simple 

simple enough to identify our souls

with a string of numbers and letters.

I was born a sapling,

born to stretch, twist,

reach for illumination; fueling the roots

from which I sprang.

Why do these axes

clad in their glasses

want to beat me into factory form?

We should be watered and nursed

until our trunks grow rings

incapable of calculation;

Teach me to grow toward the sun,

and not to become a fragrant product.

Teach me to drop fruits of wisdom

and throw flowers;

for apples can only drop

from fruitful trees.