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.