An acorn fell
Rooted
Sprouted
Leafed
Four generations knew it
It had room to spread
It had nothing to fear or dread
It was magnificent
Now it’s dead
The Oak grew majestically
Over the centuries
Slain instantly
By Nature’s treachery
Lying in limbo
Roots akimbo
Workmen chop and hack
With saw and axe
Seemingly without reverence
They could show sentiment
For a great fallen monument
Nature the Maker
Nature the Taker
A space now hugely empty
Occupied only by a memory
Or is it?
Because another acorn has fallen
Rooted
Sprouted
Leafed
And four more generations may know
it.
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