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.
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