My father had a sliver.
I have barely a splinter.
But I can kneel before it
On my inherited knees
With all their unique fractures
And feel the mythic Druid
In the oak groves chant with me.
No natural tree or bone
Bears cross arms over itself.
Not that natural means good,
Much less nice, but I can see,
Etymologically,
The resemblance of word trees
And my own, much-broken knees.
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