Copyright 2005 Ben S. Pollock
Wednesday, Sept. 28, 2005:
My Oak
“How tall you want it?”
“There’s a choice on the tree stump?”
“Sure, put a plant there.”
After a day of thuds,
They’ve cleared the boughs: They’re rotten.
The trunk’s thud thundered.
Long after the cuts
And the oak rolled off, who knew
Death’s sap could smell sweet.
-30-
-
‹ Home
Contents
-
Categories
-
Tags
-
Archives
- December 2008
- November 2008
- October 2008
- September 2008
- August 2008
- July 2008
- June 2008
- May 2008
- April 2008
- March 2008
- February 2008
- January 2008
- December 2007
- November 2007
- October 2007
- September 2007
- August 2007
- July 2007
- June 2007
- May 2007
- April 2007
- March 2007
- February 2007
- January 2007
- December 2006
- November 2006
- October 2006
- September 2006
- August 2006
- July 2006
- June 2006
- May 2006
- April 2006
- March 2006
- February 2006
- January 2006
- December 2005
- November 2005
- October 2005
- September 2005
- August 2005
- July 2005
- June 2005
- May 2005
- April 2005
- March 2005
- February 2005
- January 2005
- December 2004
- November 2004
- October 2004
- September 2004
- August 2004
- July 2004
- June 2004
- May 2004
- April 2004
- March 2004
- February 2004
- January 2004
- December 2003
Blogroll
-
RSS Feeds
-
Meta