Flora Ozymandias

The Lumbermen tell of an Ancient Pine

Wearied by the winter, consumed by the

Cold, disrobed by the Fall. Before it met

The chop of the axe and the knot of twine,

The rooted chaff had long known death. It gorged

On summer’s bounty – choking the ground and

Needling the clouds. Hid away from winter’s

Reap, rot and decay fill their paneled house:

“I can spare no leaf; I am evergreen.”

Firmly clothed in greed, yet naked the same,

On its bark was etched my name. Pride adorned,

I plucked an ornament free, thinking it

Pleasing to the eye, this mock red fruit — but

Saw only myself in harsh reflection.