All day long the dove kept me awake.
Its swinging and singing makes me sick.
Heaven knows where it came from
sitting white and pure on my branch.

I am old. I am brown and cracked.
My edges are crumbled
and what once was heart-shaped
now has a frightening crippled form.
I had been green and smooth
now I crackle when I move.

Below me the lawn:
Uncountable blades of grass,
thousands of spearheads
ready to pierce me.
They never grow to that sickening color
I'm wearing.

I curse every wind
that could separate me from my tree.
Rotted plums next to me.
They stink all day.
They house worms.
They nourish the decay.
They frighten me.
Just like the sun
that burned me brown
that made me brittle.

All day long the day has been dying.
I am waiting for the moon,
the cool tune of turning stars, the dew:
a moist breath on my skin
silver dazzling little drops
you could mistake for tears.

I know I'll soon be falling
down to the roots of my tree.
I'll be turning, twisted by the wind
at odds with gravity.