Now to the world that has put me in chains,
I will laugh again, beyond this oak tree,
for I was once driven too, to be free—
there lies another prison when it rains:
there lies another logic that compels,
when forced to plant a marigold, plant ten,
throw seeds into the ground beyond land’s bend,
my father, in the harvest time it tells
you were on a ladder of broken rungs,
chores burden you when you are ancient now,
with all the winds that have passed through your boughs.
You helped right the fallen trees, roped their trunks
so now they’re back to back in allegiance;no longer fallen, in a freedom stance.