Many years ago, in a poetically mischievous mood, I thought of the old line about how to carve a horse out of a block of wood: you take a block of wood and carve away everything that doesn't look like a horse. I thought: Hmm.... What if I wanted to write a poem on that principle, about...let's say...well, not a horse, but how about a tree? I guess you could say I decided to work with the wood instead of the animal.
So I proceeded to create a poem that was one long process of elimination, about everything a tree wasn't, trusting that at the end there'd be nothing left but a tree...sort of. Here's the result.
What’s a Tree?
by Ken Sears
What’s a tree?
Well, it’s not a horse.
It’s not a lake or a waterfall.
It’s not a volcano.
A tree isn’t an eagle or a star.
It’s not a pyramid or church steeple.
Not a soft breeze.
It’s no dream, regret or plea.
It’s not a silver mirror.
It’s not a circus clown.
A tree isn’t your parent’s voice or child’s cry.
It isn’t hope or despair.
It isn’t you, of course.
A tree is not a cozy hearth,
Nor a poem;
Neither page nor words.
A tree is surely no abyss;
You’ll find no all-consuming black hole there.
No, a tree is not that.
Now the rest, you can figure out.
