johngalt

I AM THE OGRE THAT I FEAR, WIELDING A DULL BLADE,
THRASHING THROUGH WEEDS, CHOPPING DOWN BEAUTIFUL TREES,
ONLY TO SEE THE BLOOM ON THEIR BRANCHES,
ONCE THEY HAVE HIT THE GROUND.

I WEEP.

THEN, TOMORROW, ANOTHER AXE BLOW,
ON A PERFECT OAK WITH ACORNS INCIPIENT.
I HEAR THE CRASH.
I SEE THE FLOWER.
I KNOW IT WAS ME WHO HAS DONE MY USUAL DEED.

I WEEP.

ONE DAY I'LL UNHAND THE AXE
AND GRASP THE PLANT IN BOTH ARMS,
SO TENDER.
BUT NOW I SWING IT,
CLEARING A PATH FOR MY ZEAL
ONLY TO WEEP AGAIN.