Sunday Morning - Ava Allen

There is a tree, planted long ago

In a field of cotton, white as snow

A little dove perches

Where the highest branch grows

And down at the base,

Lays a haggard old crow.

 

He’s close to death, but his eyes are keen

He tells you the tale of what he’s seen.

“Men”, he says,

“men and their greed

taking, always taking,

more than they need.

 

A deadly sin, an unholy vice,

 

They ate the forbidden fruit, and paid the price.

 

But they didn’t just eat from the tree

 

They planted it,

 

it took root,

 

and it grew,

 

enough that it now shades both me and you.”


 

The crow then falters, and proceeds to die,

While the tree remains standing, against a free, blue sky.

The little dove looks down,

And her eyes ask me, “Why?”

“Must I stay in this tree,

when I wish to fly?"

Written from “Sunday Morning”

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