sleepless in cairo

A man is made
Of flesh and blood
Of eyes and bones and water.
The very same things make his son
As those that make
His daughter.

A tree is made
Of leaf and sap,
Of bark and fruit and berries.
It keeps a bird's nest
In its boughs
And blackbirds eat the cherries.

A table's made
Of naked wood
Planed smooth as milk, I wonder
If tables ever dream of sun,
Of wind, and rain, and thunder?

And when man takes
His axe and strikes
And sets the sawdust flying –
Is it a table being born?
Or just a tree that's dying?

drawing: dad
poem: don't know
sleepless in cairo: me

Mai