Split in Half
In a Minnesotan meadow a willow wafted, weeping, broken hearted at the bellow of a bawling baby's bleating.
The tyranny of tractors clanks, and clatters from the croppers cranks awoke them both, no please or thanks.
The bouncing babe became a boy. Beneath the boughs it's shade employed, he'd read, relax; renew his joy.
There came a night they'd share a stream of consciousness as in a dream.
I was the tree.
The tree was me.
The years, they past.
They split in half.
A bolt of lightning spilled the sap.
The boy was beaten, bonked, and bashed, though later left, and learned to laugh.
Still today he speculates upon his fellow's fractured fate. He knows by now it's far too late. Their roots ripped from their rightful place.
So solemnly he sits and stares and listens to the thoroughfare and hopes, at least, she spread her seeds someday to weep within the breeze.