“Gentle As She Grows . . . “

Not very old when it happened,
A few years past a sapling,
She was out of line
A bit too far
From her many, cherished siblings
That stood in measured rows
Across the farm.
Like it was yesterday
She recalls
The day they pierced her,
With talk of “property”
And a wire that was barbed,
Confusion and pain
Like the first cut of puberty.
Still she grew tall and strong,
Her flesh covering over
The wire with the prongs,
Spreading her limbs wide
Over both sides,
With shade and fruit
That never failed to amaze
And the spiteful wire
Could do naught but rust away.
Now dropping her apples
On both the ugly and the good
She became a goddess, a queen
To the oaks of the distant woods,
Whispering to each other
As the breeze delivers her sweetness,
“Just look at her, old friends,
Is she not magnificent?”
And she bore no malice
Toward man nor beast,
So the wise oaks decided
That her name was “Peace.”

Rising Hawk

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