Growth

An old tree is
Embracing the soil
Embracing the sky
Without a will

Simply, to thrive
Just as easily
To die
Rid of evening chants

Lacking logic, lacking time
Each thread
Integrates
Thoughtlessly

But we
With ladders of misery
With counts and scales
And endless isolation machines
Our soil is dust
And fabled peace
Lies dormant

Rust creeps over
Our ploughs and tractors...


Westbow