Something Unfinished Poem by Barry Van Asten
Something Unfinished
No god and no perfection...
Three pilgrims we, our course was set;
We climbed the hill without distraction
To worship the oak tree and circle it.
And beneath its ancient limbs we stood:
The joy upon your face was gold!
But what echoes of time within that wood
Were bound within that tree of old?
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Topic(s) of this poem: tree
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8/28/2026 8:16:52 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
