I didn’t write anything last night! Narcolepsy won.
So here is another of my old poems.
I remember the giant old tree
In the courtyard of Trinity college
It was all gnarls and moss.
It drank hundreds of gallons of water
Which would otherwise have ruined the college’s foundations.
It was clearly alive
A sage of its kind
With character all its own.
I can see how the Britons might fancy
Their trees to have spirits
If they have such trees as that.
American trees, Missouri trees especially, are
American trees don’t know frost or hardship.
They know small things
And think them large.
American trees are children.
They are flexible and joyous and green
And they shake their leaves in laughter
At their wise older cousins.