Classic Poem

We don't speak of it. But we know.
You as well as I.
If we stop to think of it.
But why
stop to think of it? So?
We know. What is that? — The dry
wood from decades ago.
The tree grows around it. If
there's a flaw — the topsoil blown off,
the tree too tall — even so,
that slows nothing down.
It grows because it has to.

I can tell from the look in your eye
knowing was never enough.
It's wondering we live by.











By permission of the author.