My name is Bricke. I wish I knew his, but I have a hard time with focus.
I slinked from where I had sat
stealing looks and shamefully wishing to pay back.
Like wrapping over the dirt walls,
boldness to wallpaper fear of rejection, I asked,
'Are you a tree?'
'No,' a low, quiet, hiding voice said.
'I'm an ent.'
I longed to know more, but he simply stood there, rooted,
and I, supposing now to be as much a fly as he a plant, stole back
to the foot of my hill, climbed to the top, and hid behind bushes of heather,
feeling my hands, for nothing I'd done, being as red's the tone of his bark--I mean, skin?

Finally, a little older of a kid (thirty six, no longer a shy twenty-seven),
I wandered through a grove, looking for a place to nap.
I saw him there again but this time, not alone, having words I wished to understand.
Of course, being a hobbit, how could I give priorities neglect?
And once I'd awoke, I breathed in chance.
He stood, bent in half (though, now, twice as thick), libating a draught.
'I should--I ought!'--I did.
'Sir, my name is Bricke. What is your'n?'
Oh--Rivendale-and-Moria-of-Eld!--the reply he gave
(hardly audible under the noise the stream sang)
sat me down longer than I'd previously thought I could sit:
'I won't tell you my name,' (this took two minutes to say) 'for you wouldn't endure it for the fortnight--nay,
score of days it would take.
However, I am referred to hastily as Revere. You may call me it.'

Thither, I had run off son as I a'had the chance.
Weeks later, I'd become hungered for red taste again, so went back (there were apples in said grove).
There, I saw his standing alone, again. 'Oh. I've seen this.'
Thither thought was interrupted by something new. 'I'm hungry again.'
Two hungers Bricke the Took lusts for, to have food,

And to know.

My toes dug into the grass as I ran, feeling their hairs mix with blades not meant to shave.
I stopped short and breathily inquired,
'Dear Revere, may I climb up into your branches?'
His reply made me gasp. I hadn't a'known I could stand for so a time.
When the sounds had stopped I was impossibly relieved he was done,
only to be halfway up and realize he had merely taken a pause.
I waited for him to finish, then climbed the full length of my pleasure and sat,
relieved I didn't have to remain attentive.
'Oh no!' my heart screamed.
'...I don't have a full fondness for it. Have you ever heard of…'

I am no longer the thirty-six year old beginner;
forty-eight and starting to think of marriage (I am becoming a mature hobbit),
my thoughts pick conversations of me between and among my kind,
asking who applies themselves as a listener.
How could I blame the discriminated? It's easy: I'm young, and the immature are with amnesia.
However, I'm a'looking for the memory of twenty-seven year old Bricke, The Quick to Leave.
I grew for the opportunity of friendship into one who was suddenly standing. Never had I known I would need to. So, never had I.
With the memory, I realize I still burn to converse at a pace
the ent whose name I learn more of every day
was not made to keep.
Shepherd this young one is learning to be. What a fellow!
I Bricke seek through muddied crystal to find a space, to be what fills a noble hole.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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