My mother, who I loved dearly, was full of proverbs passed on by her father. One she impressed on me (often) was “that pride cometh before a fall”.
It had been magnificent,
towering over the canopy,
straining to touch the sky above.
Never satisfied
with ordinary.
Never content
with second best.
Until it’s pride exceeded
the grasp of its roots,
it’s ambition reaching beyond
the capacity to maintain.
Now just a slowly eroding legacy
of the consequence of seeking glory
at the expense of accepting enough.
Lying silent, rotting
on the forest floor,
seedlings taken root
their quest for light begun.
The vanity of the fallen
feeding their dreams.