Funereal for the branches of trees, for leaves. All night the wind shook the house and when we woke up we were out to sea; the cat, the boy and I left you sleeping for once and rowed us back.
When the wind stops carrying portent take me out to pasture, plant me in the ground to ward off crows. Do leave a television with Netflix Instant, do lobby them to stock it more generously with the rare celluloid written thoughtful and crisp but for chrissakes let me be, don't make the mistake of talking my way. One day someone will get a bright and novel idea to pave over the field to build another thoughtful shopping center for the import of faraway vegetables. I venture they will still need a warder off for hassling crows, or at the very least someone to hoist out from the cellar every autumn to spice up the decor.
Funereal for the branches of trees, rotten where they sheltered years of alright suburban yard. A canopy not so diminished by the loss of one or several planks, a nature's structure hedging its bets in layered lattice until one day the whole thing gives way and falls, or some lawyer-fearing yardsmen call a tree service and extract further any hint of mystery from this old soil.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
