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From: billy@calico.UUCP (Billy Green)
Newsgroups: net.poems
Subject: Episode
Message-ID: <6.UUL1.1#120@calico.UUCP>
Date: Tue, 14-Oct-86 12:31:16 EDT
Article-I.D.: calico.6.UUL1.1#120
Posted: Tue Oct 14 12:31:16 1986
Date-Received: Mon, 20-Oct-86 23:15:05 EDT
Organization: B.K.B. Consulting
Lines: 51

****REPLACE THIS LINE WITH YOUR IAMBIC PENTAMETER****



EPISODE
-------

The trees begin to move so quietly.
The boy stoops to dig a hole in mud.
A dampness hangs from bough to bough to bough;
The rain has gone to visit in the town.
The boy finds a twig on which a bud
Had grown.  It will not get to grow more now.
The rain has brought it here. It has come down
From this big tree.  The boy stoops once more
And digs again.  He digs both wide and deep.
A mockingbird lights on a branch and sings.
The boy stops his digging while the bird
Begins its dirge.  The twig has lost its war.
The boy lays the twig to its eternal sleep
And buries it.  The bird lifts up its wings
And takes to flight.  Without a single word,
The boy stands and bows his head.  He says
A silent prayer.  He waves good-bye to this
Small friend that he will never, ever know.
He thinks the tree will never be the same.
He turns to leave, to choose which of the ways
He'll use to go back home.  He thinks he'll miss
This unknown friend.  He hopes that he will grow
And blossom, and that snow and wind and rain
Will not cut short his life.  That has been done
To this tall tree, whose blossoms number now
One less than they did yesterday.  A drop
Of rain lands on the boy's cheek and rolls
Down to his chin.  The rain has come back home.
The boy runs as fast as he can now
To get home well before another drop
Can hit.  He tries to think that red hot coals
Are underfoot.  His speed grows more and more.
He's scarcely able to slow down before
He hits the porch and opens Mother's door.

Billy Green
Carrboro, NC (Paris of the South)
{seismo, decvax, philabs, akgua}!mcnc!calico!billy

(P.S., As with most iambic pentameter, this poem was meant to be read aloud--
preferrably to yourself, without making allowances for the rhyme scheme.)

Lord, it's just like living in a tome (sic)
I like calling North Carolina foam. (really sic)