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A man is made
Of flesh and blood
Of nerves and bones and water
The very same things
Make his son
As those that make his daughter
A tree is made
Of leaves and sap
Of bark and fruits and berries
It keeps birds nest
On it's branches
And blackbirds eat the cherries
A table is made
Of naked wood
Planed smooth as milk
I wonder
If table ever dream of sun
And wind, and rain and thunder?
And when man takes
His axe and strikes
And sets the sawdust flying
Is it a table being born
Or just a tree that's dying?
