A Stationary, Amiable Grain

I the picnic table,
upon which you lay your arts and draw,
where you noted a grey tone,
it was reformed to green,
repainted to reflect your mood,
in my ingrained fancy,
I imagine for you the apex of my lush years,
their length cut short, by an eager axeman,
and came slowly, my parts lumbering in tow,
to your yard, to dwell there after,
furnished with ample art supplies,
to make me swell with pride as those paints dry and fade.