The Slab Besides Me

A cold slab in my hand is a slice of a tree's identity;

A page out of nature's history, a token of our planet's diversity

The swirls in the heartwood are like fingerprints - all unique.

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The growth rings sing a ballad about the smoother bark

As I hold it in my hand my mind starts to travel

around the paths, this wood can take

and not one of them would be a mistake.

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You could be a carved clock always ticking away.

Perhaps a fence near its old roots outside

the foundation of our feasts.

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Maybe you're the legs holding the frugal thrones.

If that is not enough, the coasters of our morning coffee

and the tins of our daily bread or maybe you

could be the pencil drawing the forest of your origins.

regardless of how we are nurtured,

we return in Mother Nature's embrace.