Trees

Trees
By Meghan Doyle

Those majestic kings
That make up a forest.
Whose advantage we take
To make all kinds of things.

Those leaves
A hearth, warmed by the stove of the sun,
Patterns like a cobblestone street,
With bricks side by side it, deceives.

And the branch,
A bow, bending under an archers hand.
In the autumn,
It lets slip the leaves in an avalanche.

And behold the trunk,
Bare, like a dirt road through an empty country.
One of these kings is taken from its throne,
And used to make one soldier's bunk.