UNDER THE URBAN ARBOR (October 17, 2013)

A glorious cedar bore my new writing desk
A second bore the chair that at present bears me
A generous third, a no. 2 pencil set
Transmuting graphite into poetry
On paper that also used to be a tree

Closed in by bamboo blinds and fallen-tree walls,
I leave the sunlight for he whose alchemy
Transmutes gold into green, ere to the ax it falls
I bask in the halls built of spoils of victory
If I look outside, are there any trees to see?


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