Bowlweevil Woodturning

PLUM BOWLS

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TREES

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree,

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Aginst the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)