Like sapless maple-tree, or trodden root,
or twig that snaps and fractures under boot,
we miserable forest, blighted grove,
exposed to axes searching for a trove,
have no recourse to rain in such parched land:
this strange oasis where the with’ring hand
that builds a deadly concrete lot
encroaches, bit by bit, on every seed and knot.
Yet who is that upon the clearing, high?
A royal oak! Not seen in these parts, nigh
millennia now!  Hush! Wait! He seems to graft
his root and bark to barren ash! What craft!
And now… a crimson berry blooms?! What fruits
are these, that seem to warm our creaking roots?


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