My domains are covered with them, fallen, gray-
brown, still unsprouted, for they never took
the big chance to become great oaks. They are
myself in many ways. And so I look
away—
though being human I can walk around
on legs, enjoy a little sipping, munching,
playing games. . . . I’d even still go far,
save that with every step I hear this crunching
sound
reminding me of what I’ll never be.
Is it an ogre? No. Mischievous boys?
No. Drunkards in a sawdust-riddled bar
trampling out seeds of greatness? . . . Oh. The noise
is me.
James B. Nicola is a regular contributor to Underwood and its sister publications.