It cannot hear, or have I
Seen it sharing a smidge with anyone —
My little tree, that has no eyes,
Cannot be compared.
Half of it lives underground, like a pile
Of obsolete things scrambled with earth,
Where it roots communicates,
In hundreds Centipede's feet.
I'm Outcome, I'm fully above-ground —
And I hope the birds will not let me go
Unseen, talk about it endlessly
As they perch on this sentient being,
[This Tree]. It'd be asinine for me to believe,
Or think, that it can subtly tell
When I'm gaunt, when I'm frisky; or if it wonders
Why the birds chirrups all day;
Me passing from rooms,
Me glancing at it from afar.
But the tree doesn't speak,
It's in its usual state, undisguised
Like the language of cicadas
Just before Spring's arriving —
Yet under its luxuriating branches
I feel in flux with the universe,
Wrapped in its enigmatic foliage —
In it, with every transpiring bud.
A tree, is not a dog, a cat or a cockatoo,
It'll not die next year, or next, or next —
It's immobile, almost immortal; you may inscribe your name there,
And it'll protect it, protect it, protect it.
Up there the world is a helium balloon that burst too quickly —
(There are some pockets of stars scattered there, but they too disappear with some magic spell.)
[Will the tree ever undersand, —
That when I get old, I see myself there:
To be at its crotch, sharing each other infinite joy and comfort.]
