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Bagatelle

You see the old olive tree  at the entrance of the village
 take it for granted until you see the tree is dying
still, it has about it a non-communicative dignity
an acceptance of life`s unplanned cosmic shortness.
Dying slowly, a  botanist is trying new soil around 
to get more mileage, but in the plant is
too old, cow dung or artificial fertilizer can stop the tree  
bark goes wrinkled, 300 years is enough
To be dead is to be unborn
 there is no second coming
Not even for a 300-year-old tree.
The morning wakes us up with a dance of sunlight
thought of buying a pair of shoes, bagatelles are
the sum of our existence.

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