Each spring I fall in love
with the tree that never lost
its leaves, that somehow
escaped winter’s thrall,
hanging on for dear life,
even though its sentimental
attachment to stale
photosynthesis means
it will be developmentally
challenged through the summer
months. I take pity
on this tree, it has to
endure the taunts
of the evergreens who never
change or save their skin
instead bustle in the breeze
prepared for every element.
I love this tree, even
though I realize pity isn’t
love. I want to hug
this tree, and shake
some sense into it, convince it to
join the burgeoning fold
of snowless ephemera,
loose its stubbornness
holding onto an evaporating
season—the ineradicable
frame of green reference—
Shall I compare thee to
a wilted rumpled hungover tree?
See, the buds are starting
to blossom on the other branches
more hip to the times—
isn’t it better, tree, wouldn’t
you agree, to break into
bloom, full unknowing
your brown brittle fate?
Taste the tongue of the sun,
forget your revolving past.
You’ll be here a lot longer
than I will, tree—you might
as well get used to it.
Joshua Keiter 