Sycamore Poem by John thebarman
Sycamore
Yesterday, I put you to the saw,
sawed you limb from limb
and cut your trunk
to six inch slices.
Today, I axed
those slices, soft as cheese,
splitting them
along the clean fine grain.
Alien,
they call you
but you grow fast and well
with aphids for the wrens
and pollen for the bees.
Projection?
Yes! Our souls unite
in the long winter night
when the log burns bright.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/30/2024 1:35:46 AM # 1.0.0.1119
