Bare Branches

Vintage Words


See that enormous tree growing 

on the other side of tile-peaked roofs.

It advertises the idea of thick

and green via inarticulate leaves.


But they speak to the wind or

they chat with the grackles. We 

are left out of their conversations.

At night they whisper and during

rainstorms they sing.


We take their shade for granted,

let them block the hot sun as if it

were their purpose in existence without

understanding the art heavy lives

of leaves.


In Autumn they tell stories of Winter's

bare branches while we pay someone

to rake up their spillage and complain

to fallen patches of color. We demand annually

why there are always so many, but they seldom

speak back except for a crisp quick crunching

comment underfoot. 







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