Bitter Tree

My great-grandfather found a spot
along the smallest of rivers
called a creek most of it either
dry or underwater.

A pioneer from north of north
planted a tree of generosity
it was not huge but flowered
during the month of excesses.

In my birth year of fifty-one
uncles of all of my friends
strung up a chinaman
in its muscular branches.

Now I water its roots
now I harvest its fruits
from it I brew a beverage
that is bitter with truth.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
This entry was posted in poem, poetry, song and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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