not yet a poet laureate?
Myrtle! I say, (she's a tree of lowly lineage,)
unwind your limbs from the lordly pine. I saved
him from the builder's saw, the gaping yaw
of someone's fire. I claim this stalwart symbol mine
as traveling mate, our tandem destiny of
the arbor-trary kind absolved from ordinary fate.
Yet, if I, or my soldier tree should fall, I call
on the power of St. Michael's sword, his purple
yew, which downed the devil in a few. We,
who are to the lavender born, unlike the myrtle
of low born scorn -- Prince of angels, mighty
tree, I take my holding power from thee. One eye
cocked toward immortality, I remain to make
the odd, little poem, or narratives a' la Uncle
Remus, forever hoping to be famous.