The Cypress Tree
An old man sat beneath a cypress tree
His back against its lifeless, brittle wood.
He sighed among the wheat; his tree was frail.
Its flaccid branches hung, like feeble arms.
There was a time, the old man closed his eyes,
My cypress tree stood tall; his roots grew deep.
His trunk was hard and strong when I was young;
His branches reached up, pierced the restive moon.
In summer finches sheltered in his limbs
And meadowlarks amidst his verdant leaves.
The roiling clouds all fled by cypress tree
The wheat shafts, awestruck, bowed their golden heads.
It’s been a long, long time, the old man sighed,
Since any bird has known my cypress tree.
He looked up through the vacant, withered limbs,
And slowly, sadly stood and walked away.