On the Joy or Tragedy of Parenthood

I am a tree
that grew a strong shoot
that bends into a bow

The Knot whence owl had flown
My quiver of a single arrow.

In Spring I blossom forth
produce fruit that bends my bough
Take Aim
at far horizon
and release my pent-up arrow

If it were true
my joy is replete
as leaves
Fall and coldness
slows my blood

Am I a tree
that grew a chainsaw?

Its Loud Promise
brings Gory Mess
as it Roars to Life
in Season.