What Warmth Is There in One Old Tree? by Russell Bittner

What warmth is there in one old tree
with room enough for me and thee
to crawl inside and order tea
and scones this rednosed Monday?

Much more, I'd bet, than on the ground
where snow and ice and dogabound,
and boomers, in surroundsound,
box our cars into next Tuesday.

If not a tree, let's find a lake
and swap our tea and scones for cake,
then ratchet up the flame to bake
our "catch" on pieskied Wednesday.

If not a lake, at least a pond
of which your forebears once were fond
before they slithered out to bond less
gills one murky Thursday.

(A pond is but a toad's brass ring -
theatrically, his chance to sing
as well we might before we bring
the curtain down on Friday.)

But if you'd rather hug the bank
because the last time out you sank
up to your knees in mud that stank
of fish we caught on Saturday,

then let's just light a little fire
and make of toads and fish a pyre,
and to our tree once more retire
to sleep till Easter Sunday!

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