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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
Until they no longer grip the muddy swill
Beneath your well-worn boots?
Unlike the lumberjack before you,
Who hacked at my foundation
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.
The others are wrong.
Not all lumberjacks are murderers.