Trees Weep When I Write
Trees weep when I write
knowing they pay a price
for each word, each line
each crumpled thought.
They cry as pencils,
worn to nub-like points
are cursed and banished.
Recycle barrels are not impressed
for racoons do not read poetry
fail to grasp the metaphor
of transient words
the alliteration of rhythms drumbeat
nor does the alley cat
serenade the windowed house cat.
An itinerant wind
may carry my poetry
crumpled in its pocket,
drop it somewhere
and by chance
a passerby take a peek.
And knowing this
I still write to sate
the insatiable appetites
of a guileless muse
for she knows not of the trees
or the oceans
lest I explore them for her
with her, because of her.
For we are lovers
of places only we can go
feelings only we can share
moments spent alone
exploring the blank pages
of poetic wondering.
John G. Lawless
©3/3/2020
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