A certain predictability

There’s a certain predictability of a tree outside
the window where I sit most days.

This morning I sit, study the bark’s
pattern of greys some nearly white

with deeper, black lines etched against
the trunk which shifts slightly from straight.

Memories of fallen limbs and branches
disrupt the regular bark pattern.

Near circles radiate amid
the tessellating pattern share a little of your story.

Were I to drag my fingers against your surface
I’d find your uneven texture soft and dry.

But like most mornings I sit inside
the smooth pane of glass between us.