Kell Stinkston Goety Blam-3

To all of you who have not frozen to death yet in the cold, star-white winter, here's my next poem for you. Please enjoy!

Kell Inkston

                I started cutting at a tree called childhood today.

                Got my pa’s hatchet and started wiling my time away.

                I get through the bark and it hurts like hell.

                I never thought I’d feel this much.

                I wanted to see how tall it would grow-

                When I was a kid that didn’t know,

                That what is weed and what is tree,

                Is quite alike to human eyes.

                I hit it the first time through the flesh and skin.

                I smell the sweet weedliness that men

                Older than I am say I shouldn’t have.

                I should have gotten rid of it long ago.

                I wonder though at times like these,

                Times when young men chop down trees,

                Whether or not the weed’s been a tree the whole time.

                Maybe it’s been just the way it’s supposed to be.

                I quit cutting halfway through.

                Left enough bark for it to live its life.

                Perhaps they’ve been wrong all this time.

                And the tree they said was a weed, was a tree indeed.