A man is made
Of flesh and blood
Of eyes and bone and water.
The very same things make his son
As those that make
His daughter
A tree is made
Of leaf and sap
Of bark and fruit and berries.
It keeps a bird’s nest
In its broughs
And blackbirds eat the cherries.
A table’s made
Of naked wood
Planed as smooth as milk. I wonder
If tables ever dream of sun
Of wind, and rain and thunder?
And when man takes
His axe and strikes
And sets the sawdust flying -
Is it a table being born?
Or just a tree that’s dying?
Author unknown