The Tree
by 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 as though not
Just for branch
Or a bunch of fruit but-more than that-for a bed
Or to fence the ranch
In which I raise the beasts that fill the pot
In the many shapes
My simple commerce turn them to like bread
Or fish or grapes
To feed the brood the little woman me.
There go the boys.
Go watch them, strong limb; spread up the tree,
They pluck their toys
Out of its branches, as out of my childhood tree
I shaped my joys.
