It was such little things that caused the rot,

The limbs to fail, potential to be lost.

Such little things that grew internally,

Borne on malicious breath to find their home.

There little things lay hidden for a while,

While offering no sign of death to come,

Yet sending tendrils through the damaged  wood.

Cancer-like, seeking, creeping, to destroy,

To tear apart the fibre and the heart,

Pervading and invading quiet cells,

Bringing each new potential to still birth.

Until, too late, the damage is observed,

Unable to be treated or reversed,

And limbs hacked off to try to save the trunk,

And hacking at dead roots in hopeful bursts.

The tree was lost because of little things,

Creeping into each tiny wound unseen.

No blame is there, acceptance now must be,

The gardener’s one last thought.

Burn all the wood, burn it and pile it high,

Watch as the flames cleanse all that can be cleansed.

Now drench the soil in noxious petrochemistry,

And pray the earth can heal with given time,

And look for where infection first crept in,

And try to stop the little things that come.

The truth is simple when true acceptance comes,

It was the small things that caused the large to fail.



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