The Power of Purple

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. for Ron