New England Mille Feuille

You are the oak tree that
incorporated the entirety
of a bicycle into your trunk,
an oddity of your growth

habits, to encompass the bike
left behind by a child who
no longer wanted it. Your
bark, spilling over the

rusted crossbar like a
primordial ooze,
viscous and precariously
supportive, until the

ultimate, Shel Silverstein
sacrifice left you an
obliging stump, revealing
the rings of your past:

widely spaced and pink
at the center, scarred by
draught, fire, trauma at
the radial lines, which you

carried with a steadfast
stoicism. You threw your
acorns to the forest floor,
rich In decomposing foliage.

There is no closure, only
nurture, taking what you have
learned to bear fruit, the caps of
which made shrill whistles

for children, reminding the world
of their undeveloped presence, shaded
by a collective canopy. No, you will never
be the Charter Oak, boastful, old,

rubbing knotted elbows with
King Charles, pompously
granting unprecedented autonomy
to the State of Connecticut.

Your wood will never comprise
the governor’s desk; but we will
look to you, noble savage, and
patiently await your counsel;

when your leaves are the size
of a mouses’s ear, we will plant corn,
we will feed even the ungrateful children,
we will nourish the world.