I thought that I could surely be
a poet with wisdom of the trees
if I could use transmogrified
and keep the meter in full stride.
But in my search for helpful muse
my eyes the night sky did peruse
and it was then I chanced to see
amidst tall trees so shadowy
the stark bare branches of an elm
with full harvest moon at the helm,
A work of art with tiny stars
to sparkle back-light from afar.
‘Twas God who made that handsome tree
then stripped it bare so regally.
Exposed and trembling, tempest tossed
no poem is born without a cost.