BY DR. AGONSON
Remember when the sun reached down,
and thus in heavenly light was crowned
a withered tree in radiant beam.
So it all happened in my dream.
The bark, like shadow, black with soot,
all burnt after the fire partook
of summer feast in some dry spell.
And by the tree appears a well.
Spoke then the tree, in the sunlight:
Wherefore you left me to my plight?
Could not your waters, deep running,
have saved me from this dread cunning?
It was a plot that struck me dead,
an act of man, or so it’s said,
and all the forest now is ash.
Could not you spare a simple splash?
Responds the well with bellowed voice:
Wherefore you credit me with choice?
Had I power as like a spring,
then on command water I’d bring.
Only when one’s a will their own
can I provide water from stone.
A bucket dropped, and then pulled out,
or else nothing will come about.
Yet hope, for buried deep below,
the sacred dark, refuge from woe,
your roots descend lower than most,
touching the source in which I boast.
And in that gentle rising sun,
a small green leaf, and only one,
did prove some life could still be found
in that forest burnt to the ground.