The Tree

by Eric Y. Theriault

The wind,
Blows softly in a field,
A field of nothing,
but grass and hills,
and rocks and a lonely tree.
The field,
So green and vigorous,
except for the tree,
which has no strength or leaf,
and is so small and ugly;
too pathetic for anything to love it,
and too calm for anything to know it.
Noone visits this field,
for this tree brings everyone down,
and everyone misses the beauty around it,
the tree to strong for their murder,
yet too weak to be great and wonderful,
and I hope when you think of me,
you think of the grass, and not the tree.
eyt*