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The Tree, The Tree

Are you old, trunk so cold,
what secrets do you hold? 

Oodgeroo Noonuccal

 

but through me the tree
you are
and nothing comes to me

Kevin Gilbert, The Tree


What am I, the tree
who stands before thee
just as thee are tree for me,
Or I am thee.

When you are tree
are we not me, to what degree
are you and me
the one degree, the middle c?

My addressee,
my patterned tree, for thee I plea
for our shared key
is time’s payee, our internee.

My addressee,
my patterned tree, my meadow pea
the wind doth flee
your brittle lee.

Where do you flee?
To what degree
are you and me
both cleave and nee?

How do I plea
before the solid trunk before me?
Am I free
or am I tithed to thee?

My addressee,
my patterned tree, the bourgeoisie
in middle c
would take you from me, flee from me.

My patterned tree
did you foresee the taking from me?
A detainee, a devotee,
but who but me has death’s deep key?

When you are tree,
when you are me, to what degree
can we foresee
to think or see aesthetically?

To what degree
are we so free? Are we so free
to not foresee
time’s one duree, that final key?

My addressee,
my patterned tree, I’ll take you with me
if you’ll take me,
my devotee, my detainee.

My addressee,
my patterned tree, for us I plea
for I foresee
futurity.

Who are you, tree?
Who has the time of living’s key?
Is it death’s poetry,
that lone blue pea?

Who are you tree?
Are you the tree that stands for thee,
my addressee,
my detainee, my devotee?

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