only when one stops to consider the meaning of trees
can one grasp the deeper meaning of history -
of the branches - the broken hollowed eyes
which but for a cold spring may have been -
but shriveled scorched on frosty wind
nothing comes from nothing or so they say -
that false trunk - now over-shadowed -
which in vainful passion carries a pen-knifed heart
of a love out-grown - perhaps divorced
from the trunk which grew - in which we now shade
and so it is with the stories to which we cling -
the myths of dirty urchins and the simple solutions of battle -
one may coppice the parts we do not trust
but no matter how hard the weeding - branches will thrust
and leaves unfurl
The Blue Book
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