Transformation

Transformation



Birds sang in my branches that reached the sky,
Shaded the ground, my canopy on high,
As I fell to the earth, no ears heard the sound,
The ache of my spirit as I crashed to the ground.

To the Axeman’s hand I did succumb,
Now contemplate, what shall become,
Like a thief in the night, my life he stole
Sent dust to the heavens, escorting my soul.

Year after year, looked forward to Spring,
Return of the birds to hear them sing,
If only I could sing as they,
To lighten my spirit on a cold Winter day.

My branches no longer reach for the sky,
All broken and splintered, now as I lye,
A fragment of what I used to be,
Once stood tall, a majestic tree.

My length was severed three times twain,
Each pass of the blade, my soul cried in pain.
No more will birds, their time to spend,
On branches that swayed, in gentle wind.

Run through the Mill, cut many times more,
What’s left of me now, lay piled on the floor,
Two feet long and three inches wide,
Not useful for much, now tossed aside.

One special day after months on the floor,
A stranger came through the large bay door,
He asked for scraps for a project in mind,
Walnut, Cherry or any such kind.

He chose me first among all the rest,
For his project in mind, I was the best,
He took me home, no charge, I was free,
What could he make from a piece small as me?

He shaped, cut, whittled and ground,
Blew wind through the end, what was that sound?
Recalling the birds that sang when a tree,
No birds now, the songs made by me.

When once the birds sang loud and long,
I too, can sing a beautiful song,
In the tradition of Sioux, Kiowa and Ute,
Been transformed, a Native American Flute.


George