A Little Story of the Little Woodpecker

How much wood
would a woodpecker peck
till it drew blood from
rough bark?

Once upon a time
(so begins this rhyme)
a little woodpecker flew
through the woods.
Perched she upon a tree
and began to peckpeckpeckpeckpeck.

On the tree she perched and pecked
'til the tree bark specked and
   flecked.
On the forest floor the wood chips
   gathered
more and more and more ...

Let us turn now to another
   rhyme:

Once upon a time
a sapling grew and sprouted.
Still young and green, it
   doubted
it could withstand strong winds and
the sharp nips of hungry fawns.

But it did,
amidst countless beatings -
ferocious stormings and
mindless tramplings -
the supple shoot did grow and grow and
   grow
until a solid and sturdy
tree stood in its place
and deeply spread its roots.

So hard was its wood
and so tough and rough its bark that
no fearsome gust nor steely ax
   could smack or
hack or whack the tree till it had
been smashed or crashed or
   dashed.

This same tree the little woodpecker pecked
   and pecked and pecked.
Through the bark and into the wood,
she was the only little bird that could -
and would.
Thus, while the tree still stood, still
   stood,
from its protective bark and wood
it began to bleed ...
then bled, and bled, and
   bled.

Finally, the tree it groaned, and said,
“Little bird, do you know how you hurt
  me with your beak, and how you’ve made
   me bleed?”
In reply, the woodpecker merely continued
to peck and peck and
   peck.

Blood from the tree
trickled from its bark and
   dribbled down its trunk
like the juice of fat crimson berries;
blood that fell like hearts of rubies,
swollen tears like sweet red cherries,
drip-dropped, and sunk into the forest
   floor.

“Little bird,” said the tree again,
“little bird, why? Look, oh look,
 you are making me cry.”
But still the little woodpecker remained
mutely peckpeckpeckpecking.

More and more and more
the wood chips gathered on the forest floor;
more and more and more
sparkly rubies and sweet cherries poured forth.

Then, for the final time, the tree
it sighed and asked, “Why do you perch,
little bird, on my branch –”
                                          “Your arm,”
said the woodpecker bird.

“My –”
       “Arm,” insisted the little bird, twitting,
“Yes, yes, yes, your arm, your arm, your
   arm!”

Somehow, the tree it took a look;
That was how it understood.

Lo, there was no more a tree but
a woodpecker perched on an arm,
a bird on the arm of a girl.

No more a tree of sturdy trunk,
no raiment of rough bark around it
   clung:
only a slender girl, bare as the day
   she was born,
with skin more tender than a sapling’s
   shoots.
Skin so soft and tender, it bled
where sharp claws and beck were still
   hooked.

Said the girl to the woodpecker,
“Little bird, little woodpecker bird,
  why are you still perched on my arm?
  You still hurt, still hurt, still
   hurt me.”

The little woodpecker was silent and still,
but the girl thought she could hear it,
   and listened
until she began to smile.
Said she then, “Rest awhile - stay
forever if you would.
                                       You
have made me human, made me feel -
but I have so much more to learn
I am ready to bleed
   a river mile.
                           Come, little
woodpecker bird, stay perched
   upon my arm.
We have such a ways to go,
and you still have so much to
   teach me, to
show.”



Oh, how much wood
would a woodpecker peck
till it drew blood from
rough bark?

Only the little woodpecker that had
   would know.
Only the little woodpecker that would.

Only the little woodpecker had
   understood.


Image copyright Lisa Alisa



28^th - 30^th November 2006