Poem: The Tree Regarding Himself
Does a tree gaze upon for pleasure?
The bird, yellow and daft?
The squirrel, dancing from trunk to branch, a ballerina on the bark?
Modesty, Mommy Nature says, is our greatest virtue.
Recognize how small and insignificant your roots and branches and canopy
Seem when measured against the sky and stars,
The distant constant moon.
Nothing in the bank, nothing in the driveway.
A patch of dirt, of degraded life. Not even
A perfect circle.
Just a place where everything begins and ends.
The children say they will love eternally, best friends inseparable and true.
Yet nothing is so lovely as a tree.
And even that must eventually, inevitably,