The World Tree - VIII. Heartwood

Would you hew me to the heartwood, cutter?

Would you leave me open-hearted?

Put your ear to my bark, hear my sap’s mutter,

Mark my heartwood’s beat, my leaves’ flutter.

Would you turn me into timber, cutter?

Leave me nothing but a heap of logs, a pile of brash?

I am a world, I am a maker of life —

Drinker of rain, breaker of rocks, caster of shade, eater of sun,

I am time-keeper, breath-giver, deep-thinker;

I am a city of butterflies, a country of creatures.

But my world takes years to grow and seconds to crash;

Your saw can fell me, your axe can bring me low.

Do you hear these words I utter? I ask this —

Have you heartwood, cutter? Have those who sent you?