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Healing the Prometheus Tree

prometheus tree

Did you hear about the man
who cut down
the oldest tree in the world?

He didn’t know it was that old
until he had counted
its fallen rings

And then it was too late
he had come for a core sample
and left with a legacy

I wished to know his story
What was it like to stand on the stump
of the felled Prometheus?

But he would never tell
and died with his story
suspended in shame
as if it were pure amber

Yet now I wonder if it is
too late after all?

Must we let the vultures of regret
pick our bones clean daily?

What failure is ours to own
and what of it is ours to harvest
like sap from a newly tapped maple?

And what if you have failed
to find the elixir you seek
because it was never for you
but always from you?

Can this crude bucket
hold both our contrite hearts
and the nectar that will
sustain our families?

With that, my fellow wounded healers,
I have to ask: Will you stand beside me
as we encircle the stump of our past
as we rise and converge
and heal, in our own way,
the Prometheus tree?

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