A Tree

I'm like this tree,
A very old tree, maybe an olive tree.
My trunk is gnarled and twisted,
And my bark scorched by the sun.
During the dry season,
When there is no water to quench my thirst,
I become dry and my branches brittle.
When the hard wind blows,
My arms (the branches) will break.
I only seem strong, with my roots buried in the ground.
But I can only wait for an act of God, like in a thunderstorm
To break me in two.
But you, oh blade of grass,
I wish I was like you.
Growing long and slender,
And swaying in the breeze beside me.
You are small, and may not ever grow as big as me.
But no matter how hard the gust of wind,
And no matter how heavy the rain,
They will not uproot you
Nor blow you away.
If you are cut, you will grow again.
Such is your strength that I envy.
How can I ever be like you?
When God has made me who I am,
And you, you.
Can a tree, so set in its ways
transform into grass?
Alas, my friend, as strong as you are
And as determined as I am,
Neither you or I can make me
Into something I was never destined to be.