My eyes are accustomed now
To the waving white bows
Of the birch outside my window,
The one that has been dead
From the moment we said
I love this house, and moved all our trinkets in.
I can't help wondering when it died,
Or if anybody tried
To resuscitate it.
I think probably not,
That previous tenets forgot
To care for it with gentle hands.
Perhaps it had been taken for granted
As others became disenchanted
With life's beautiful things.
We humans are not to be trusted.
We are too maladjusted
To nurture these gifts given us.
We tend to strangle the roots
Stand by as each word pollutes
Let actions destroy a picture of love
We squander the blossoms
Pick pedals then toss em.
Overtime springtime is stripped
Of radiant fruits
Blooming forth from her shoots,
They fall fast to the dirt
Hardly making a sound
As they cover the ground.
It was dead before we stepped foot in this house.
Where then was the hope
For the birch on the slope
Which leads to the mailbox?
She had been dead for years.
She was watered with tears
But showing no signs of a wick.
And now at last she has fallen
No more blossoms, no pollen.
The inevitable has come.
Now a new opportunity befalls us
So destiny calls us
"Plant a new tree!
Water and tend this new garden
With grace and with pardon.
See what wonders you have yet to behold
With love prune and strip
Plant a new relationship.
I mean...birch tree."
