Tradition Part II

Let's explore tradition.

To me, the old song is fruit

On the end of a limb

Of an old tree.

It is picked, and the fruit grows back.

I feel the weight

Of the swelling seed

As the branch bends gently

And I wonder with excitement

In the thought of its taste.

You see, the tree is the same

But the rain changes from year to year,

Century to century

Such that the sweetness now

Was bitterness then,

But the taste stays familiar

And akin to the one some ancestor

Once tasted on their tongue

As a gift from the

Hard labor season.

To wait until the fruit is ripe,

To feel each footstep toward the bough

And extend my hand to receive the gift,

The fruit of purpose and practice.

But perhaps I hold this notion too dear.

Some jest that I'm the old man

Yelling at the children to get off his lawn,

But the kids are breaking branches.

Just the other day a young man

With a steel string guitar

Slung over his back

Pulled on a pale green fruit

Until the branch snapped.

He showed off the stick

For a month or two

But the fruit never grew

And the taste like sweet rain

And the reward of patience

He never knew.

Here is what I will say:

One needn't be an arborist

To study the beauty of a tree,

But if they're to hold dear

The health of the old-growth

As they reach,

Perhaps a student

Is what they should be.

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