True Wood {a #poem}
Pears thunk and plop on
barren, yellow grass
alone, uncarried.
The tree bore fruit
but there is no one
to eat thereof.
(is it still a tree?)
Upraised branches,
so much verdant waterspray
towards the sky,
still and soft against
the blue–
but no one to see.
(is it still a tree?)
Oaken limbs, worn with carrying children
to and fro, pumping, playing
jumping, but no one now
hears the joy in the swing.
(is it still a tree?)
Carpenter fashions these
woodly beams, rough-hewn
splinter-worthy
carried for miles
to the top of a hill-
everyone sees:
It was a tree.
