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A Bush, a Tree



Here and there, the wind has torn
A limb or two from the tree.
Sometimes, by design, we have pared
A branch or two in our design
Of this mighty creation we claim,
Only falsely since we are none
But keepers of the great oak tree.

Some think that we should talk to them,
The oaks, but will they listen?
How will we know, could we tell
If they are happy with the discussion,
Or are they impervious to
Our childish chatter and simple babble?

Something that takes so long to form,
We can cut down in minutes
With our devouring chain saws.
And I wonder what they would say
If they could talk to us.

Do they die and go to their
Own heaven or, are they only
Holding on to who they are,
As we destroy what we are not,
Nor never could be.
A bush, a tree, you and me.

Fred Guymon, September 18, 1998
Parked under an old Oak tree.