anne.seebach.poetry

boab tree, striving
strange twisted limbs,
does not fathom
how fair
its imperfections
from above,
in the hawk moth’s gaze

slim sapling, fresh
grown warty and bulbous,
does not fathom
how fair
its scars
from below,
in the kangaroo’s gaze


cracked age, holding
caverns in its belly,
does not fathom
how fair
its unshapen pendulous fruits
from beside,
in the desert man’s gaze