Dead Heat

Two roots sprung from the youngest tree,
The baby of the forest by our shed,
And both of us would watch it, just to see
The roots grow up, morbid curiosity
To learn how natural things are fed;

Within a week we both had taken sides,
Betting on our bush's feet, a sort of race
Or pathetic fallacy, where the victor prides
Himself (or her, it happened) on the giant strides
Baby masters at her base,

Rooting for the branches next and then
The bud, coming as it does from feet below,
A sort of pudgy palm, gambling as to when
And how the faster one, the winning hand,
Will round the corner and then – no,

No matter what direction baby's hands
Would bend, no matter where they went,
They turned out to be just leaves, bands
So similar we couldn't take a stand:
Not one of them was different.