the kids are trying their very best
to crack a seed under their small feet
while I sat, with them but without them,
lost yet never found, thinking, thinking,
thinking that perhaps that seed belonged
to our house’s oak tree, that the seed’s mum
must now be missing it very much:
“where is my seed, where is my child, where”
and what if the tree could cry, “dear god!
mercy! mercy!”? Just imagine
if the little child could grow into
a tall, fine oak tree, or a bush of
roses, posies, something beautiful
yet tragically weak, tragically
fragile as the seed goes crack: “look, look
we’ve cracked it open, it’s so pretty!”

If a tree falls in a forest, does it make a sound?
It does; no-one can hear it.
done