Boughs

The hooded canopys bow their heads,
Gnarled and crooked faces smile
I run my hands over rough bark,
The splintered shards bite their tips,
If they could speak we might discuss:
"How is the weather today, fine lady?"
And in infinite wisdom I might reply:
"Dear sir, I believe you are a tree,
Do mine eyes deceive me?"
And you might answer me:
"Child, so are you, with a heart of wood
And broken. dangling, puppet limbs,
I have watched you bend, torn by the wind,
And I have seen you break under it,
Howling in the storm,
Little tree, I have seen your heart tear in two".
But sir, you are a tree.