THE LOG

 

It must have been very quiet 

            nestled in the lakebed sand 

Where, perhaps, a score of years 

            it lay unmolested ,

And long before that 

            how it stood on the shore

The home of birds and squirrels

            and insects galore.

Around its space foraged

            coon and whitetailed deer

Using the same trail as 

            the natives of these parts.

But that of course, was before 

            those who wanted to be unmastered 

Came to build their dreams 

            of wood and stone,

And on you, my muse,

            their saw has left its mark .

The log didn’t seem to mind

            when onto the shore we pulled it

And sat and talked as if 

            it would tell some tales.

Though knowing not 

We pondered for some time

 what they might be.  

But the more we stared and wondered

The more it became increasingly clear, 

How much could we expect

When the log really wasn’t 

 all that old

To tell what we wanted to hear,

The stories maybe someday

            someone will ask

Of why we hold our freedom dear.