beseeching

How could one beseech
with all their existence?

The tree knows,
in the long, aching stretch of its form,
reaching always
for light,
for moisture,
for a touch of grace.

It is love
that lengthens the tree,
that pulls it upward
from the anomaly of birth
upon shifting sand.

Just a tree,
with arms ever-elongating,
pleading
for the gold coins of light,
day after day,
a beggar crowned
in silent prayer.