The shadow from the elm,
green in a midsummer contemplation
of various philosophies,
decides cogito, ergo sum
trumps Locke’s tabula rasa
and buries emptiness with its roots.
It knows that it grows,
so what more can its leaves accomplish?
The fall will come soon enough,
but beauty is truth, truth beauty.
Seizing the day seems more appropriate
than contemplating its children
scattered among death camps in the field,
brittle and broken by a regime of gravity
and ashes, sweet through the smoke.
It even touches the moon
on nights when lusty spirits
let grasp coincide with metaphysical reach.
Wise tree, you know you are God.
Why else the rope, the tire,
the children newly arrived from Eden
and swinging arcs though a shady universe.
Yes, all is right with the world.