You ran rings around yourself
every year until you were
full grown – dominant and
petulant. Then down you went.
Their job was to cut off everything
that stuck out. Which they did.
They limbed and bucked and sanded you smooth.
Slicked you tight and stood you up,
and now you’re dead alive, a lonesome beam.
But I know, I know:
those rings inside are circling still.
There’s glory in a block of wood.
There’s glory in a dream.