The tree before us
Is Not of the Crab,
Or any of the planets.
Or the gainful accumulation
Of knowledge over
The others of us.
Neither is it here by accident.
It’s purpose may,
By Stella measure,
Be greater than our sum this far,
Moreover it is important enough
To warrant inclusion in
The Library of The Living.
It is voiceless without us.
Yet it streams symbolically
At both the fall and redemption.
Like Autumn then Spring.
Death then life.
It is a gate which exists
In an x configuration.
Being both closed and open
Like an arrow of time,
Touched upon in a previous theorem,
Pointing the way from death to life,
As an enigmatic challenge.
Setting straight the pathway,
Through the warping timescape of eternity.
And attosecond after attosecond
The alloted illumination dims.
And those choosing to seek only evidences,
Peer helpless down into the void of God.
They seek the original cause,
Using numbers, reactions and sensual certainty.
Hindered by the language of thought alone.
Perception prooves to be an insufficient measure.
The fibrous tree has long been felled.
The Green Wood has been seasoned over time.
Sufferers of the brittle brutality of reasoning
Are noble of the spirit.
Science will not preserve you,
It will only extend your conscious years.
Science has no right hand.
C 2028 Christopher Thompson
all rights reserved