Men, entrenched like ancient trees

whose branches mock their roots,

their trunks engorged with gnarled disease…

embittering their fruits.

 

The axe gleams brightly in The Sun

beyond the shaded edge,

where with one swing its work begun

it fells their broken pledge.

 

To cut and clear the rot away

of stock that’s grown too long,

where green shoots feel the light of day

and fledgelings find new song.