The Redwoods

He was a sapling when he woke:
oh, he grew too fast, a giant redwood tree
among a forest of redwoods.
When the blades came
men looked up as he stretched into the sky.
And he let them chop him
for he bore no hands to stop them.
From his planks
they made beautiful homes
and carved furniture,
while he was left with but a wound,
his death-rings facing the sun,
exposing the seasons,
the hurricanes, and the wildfires
he had endured.
He would have to learn to accept it,
as such was his fate.
And of his scraps
and barks and branches,
let us make a bonfire, raging into the night.
And of this fire, we’ll warm ourselves
and tell our stories
of the blades that fell us,
as I lay my head on his lap
and look up into the eyes
of the one who stood tall among them all.

// 23 Sep 2020

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