They drove two hours in the rain for a bargain.
Solid oak that keeps, without polish, its sheen,
its fingerprint of living tree-grain under a tarp
on the porch. No room in this new house.
They came from a Green Valley with a parrot
singing in its cage. She loved that we, too,
live in a Green Valley. Her husband read no law
of physics or fortune in coincidence of names.
Stars hid behind stormclouds, downpour
on the way. Just in time, the desk
fit perfectly in their Odyssey SUV.
Serendipity, parrot singing an epic voyage.
From Green Valley to Green Valley
across a hundred miles of asphalt,
how many poems may yet leaf out
of this milled, transplanted oak?
Taylor Graham, California, USA
3 comments:
Thoroughly enjoyed the flow of this poem and what will come from the oak.
Reminds me of the Wych Elm project at Edinburgh Botanical gardens.
I really appreciate the structure of this one.
I had to read this because I love oak and desks and the sheen of good old wood. It was lovely.
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