BY DR. AGONSON
The rain, in windy storm, upon me pounced,
and darkened skies, with thunder clap, rolled o’er
that thing, that husk of tin that I’d become.
And so, her vindication spent, that witch
perverted me one final time, and took
all but my life. As if ‘twere dead, rather
some sculpted artifact, or tool, left out
to rust, I stayed in the secluded woods,
my ax forever raised to swing—but no,
my heart beat not; I could not fell the tree.
The oil can—out of my reach—mercy—
I plead someone to come and rescue me.
The forest grows, and I’m a stone; lichen,
my polished shine replaced, spreads over me.
The coiling vines enwrap my legs, but still
I live, encased within this hollow shell.
Empty echoes, played in my chest, remind
me of my want, for when in sport a tree
its sweetened apples casts at me, empty,
I ring out like a gong. Beside, barren,
that road of yellow brick leads on to Oz,
and no one to the Emerald City goes.
But lo, a year has come, and I can hear
sweet melodies, the singing of a song.