Poem 22, National Poetry Month: What Ought I Have Been?

What Ought I Have Been?

A hedge tree, slow to push
its green, forgot to fuss
this spring. Was it more for
me—or less—to push out a
poem, there being instinct
to bring to account in pushing
as in birth, you see? In death
what was more glorious than
the trunk that lay as if
against the entire forest
floor, and what hallowed
plate of dainties did I lace
my fingers—along—its outer
ridge alone, my eyes were
let to see—oh, yes, me.

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