A Misconception About Lumberjacks

I am an oak

With roots so deep, the earth shudders

As my tendrils pierce the shell to its molten core.

You are a lumberjack

Sawing at my trunk in an attempt

To open my bark wide

And allow the sap flowing inside

To finally be transformed into sweet syrup.

Would you rather pluck each root up

One

By

One

Until they no longer grip the muddy swill

Beneath your well-worn boots?

Unlike the lumberjack before you,

Who hacked at my foundation

Unfeelingly,

There is no lust in you

To strip me for lumber,

Selling my pieces

In order to turn a profit.

In fact, all you want

Is to admire the brightness you know is within,

So sharply contrasting the

Cold, hard shell on the outside.

I was grown from an acorn

So diseased and deformed,

It’s a wonder I stand at all.

But you, my patient logger,

Slowly worked your way to my interior,

Finding the rings on my stump

To be close together,

My growth stunted in the early years

By harsh winters and little nourishment.

Contrary to logic known to woodworkers,

I thrive more now than before

And have finally produced acorns of my own.

No,

The others are wrong.

Not all lumberjacks are murderers.