A tree’s entire
visible presence
is really an afterthought.
The branches all droop
languorously from the angle
of their original offshoot,
after briefly satisfying some
basic urge, a morning stretch.
And when stripped for winter, the form
becomes a gesture of vague, mortal futility
a weary Romeo
having rehearsed the part too well.
Only if it were uprooted
or the earth shown in cross-section
would one notice its shrewd, spidery
clawing for warmth
its needy, endless
deepening
as if each night it dreamt
of losing its grip
and spinning off into orbit
its true loneliness exposed
and then frozen forever.