The trouble with these old, gnarled trees
Still standing upright in the earth and air
Is that they want to remain homes
To the many homeless evening-birds
Which incessantly chatter to slum kids
Pouring out of their improvised shanties
With tin roofs glistening in the sun
Through old cycle tires and tarpaulin tatters
Kept defensively in place against the wind
By a motley collection of gray stones.
They do not realize even in their death
That our gardener’s three-stone stove
Is waiting impatiently for their dry logs
To arrive in its enormous, crackling fire.