Poems

They call a tree a wondrous thing

Where squirrels nest and songbirds sing

But green leaves fade under the blight

And dry roots wither out of sight

Only a shattered husk remains

Forgotten upon the barren plains

But though their tongues are still at last

Dead poets speak from days long past

What their eyes saw, their hearts embraced

Can never be lost or now erased

For their words echo through endless night

And carry within a spark of light

Arranged just so, a poem of might

Awakens us to what is right

Nothing of beauty can compare

To a poem embued with truth so rare