Never could keep a living tree alive
By trying, myself, he apologized.
So this was going to be one of those poems,
One whining like a dull knife being honed
On an old stone, not many sparks. Whispers
Could be the poem or the wind. Listeners
Were not there. The hissing in the branches
Was a dull blade scraping old bone. Chances
Were the random cosmos had decided
Against whatever could have provided
The previously dying tree enough
To throw out a few more buds, nuts, and such.
All over now, he said, reminding me,
He was there, commentary, not just tree.
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