her scraggly crown abuzz in thought,
If spinning on my seedwings, I'd
not landed in this little pot,
but grown amidst your tangled roots
and known what things they say
and learnt the lilts of choral chems
and shared the songs, the dance, the day.
Would now it be presumptuous
(if only I could stand)
to pull myself from this thin mulch
and try to root in righter land?
"She does not know our languages,
what could she take, what could she give?
Her cankered boughs won't bear the sun.
We do not think that she will live."
They're right, I think, to rule it out,
abide what cannot be unmade.
But I would wane the sweetest season
nodding in your shade.
No comments:
Post a Comment