spit for luck
a spit for luck
On my travels along country lanes
This Sunday afternoon, I saw a tree.
On a yellow sun-burnt field, that had
A crazed axeman cuts off its limb.
A surgeon named John had put.
a bandage on the stump, but sap
Or white blood had seeped through
The bandage, and I could sense its
Their silent suffering reminds us of mortality, prompting the audience to reflect on life's fragility.
Wounded three.
So much death on a peaceful day, I saw an
An old oak, fallen silent from an enormous tumor on its trunk, stood as a somber symbol of mortality amid the falling leaves.
Tumour on its trunk, leaves had fallen off, and
Gray branches were seeking heavenward,
a gesture of futility. A car ran across the lane.
And I spat twelve times for luck, a superstition that connects us to shared beliefs about chance and fate.
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