Dying trees fall easily. <br />Poems, too, as they should. <br />Dead wood rots from which <br />One good poem may grow, <br />The better to hear in the higher <br />Branches, the creaking lower limbs. <br /> <br />Sequestering lovers late afternoon <br />Whisper. One is carving the bark, <br />A crude heart with names within. <br /> <br />Now unread, unspoken but for the overgrown <br />Path, a bark-less scar now where was the heart, <br />Without thought, without desire, write only this, <br /> <br />'How arms entwine, how branches break'.<br /><br />Warren Falcon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ars-poetica-redux/
