Cedar, a paradox of the forest.
His soul resembles a cotton—
Light, soft, and sweet,
But his strength defeats floods.
Spruce, he is what I am.
Weak to build a fort,
But his leaves, bark and roots
Cure the dying souls.
Pine, a scent of turpentine.
Bathe in elixirs of life—
Come give birth to homes,
But die in the wrath of time.
Fir, like hermits in seclusion.
Let it speak the tales of its life.
In enclosures, he deceives time,
Yet dies in the wickedness of the earth.
Offer the threads of life—
Saw and gnash.
Drown and swirl.
Die into one and live as many.
Photo by Sebastian Unrau on Unsplash
© 2020 Onie Maniego and The Paper Drafts
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