Twiggy Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Twas just a little twig,
torn from the trunk
a victim of the storm.
When raging winds
chased clouds of snow
from Yukon's fields
into the continent,
there was no time
though much resolve
to stick to the old trunk,
a hundred years it had,
with pride
stood tall
shrugged off the wars,
the droughts
and now the Yukon ice,
the twig let go
as if to say
tis someone else's show.

And as it tumbled
through the city's smog,
it faced its sudden death,
and with a shrug
it braced itself
and shut its cortex down....

She wore a gown,
of such exquisite lace
that he took note
and followed her,
in weightless flight
until she landed in the shrubs.
He watched,
suspended in a fork
of a she-oak,
saw dewdrops fall
and tears of joy
and touches deep,
and when he woke
there was no sound,
though he was sure
that Paradise on earth,
it had been found.