The Tree

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The Tree
G. Burce Bunao

The tree was very beautiful to me
When I was a boy,
I climbed for fruit or out of a branch of the tree
Made me a toy –
A top, for instance, that spun around, carefree
And wound for joy
Until it toppled over and was dead.
No longer the boy,
I find the tree as beautiful though not
Just for a branch
Or a bunch of fruit by – more than that – for a bend
Or a fence the branch
In which I raise the beasts that fill the pot
In the many shapes
My simple commerce turns them to, like bread
Or fish or grapes,
To feed the brood, the little woman and me
There go the boys,
Go watch them strong of limb, spread up the tree,
They pluck their toys
Out of its branches, as out of my childhood tree
I shaped my toys.

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