Prehistoric tree, what is this allure,

What extract to preserve our memory?

In ancient eons, did some brontosaur

Graze upon your leaves with archetypal glee?

What secrets are held in fan-shaped green, spare

Peg-rowed twigs that clench each leaf apart?

Thin straight branches raised to thinner air

Betray a complex nature, hold an art

Of karma, unsettled feeling that lives

Are continuous, generations strung

Out beyond death's conceit. Our thought derives

From ancestors, shaded even then from

Jurassic sun, who beat four furry legs

To burrows, with stolen dinosaur eggs.

11/14/2001

Posted on 11/14/2001
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt