The Tree-Space

And Pliny did write me a poem. He presented it to me this morning, after the tree was cut down.

This is for you, he said.

I read it aloud:

THE TREE-SPACE

The heavens wept
(it rained)
George came with a chainsaw
And his brothers
Cut me off
From future blood-red flowers.
Where was I?
This is still my space.
I am the white open sky
I am the fence
I am the blackened leaves
I am the tap
I am the shed, the clothesline,
The neighbours' peach and fig
The rooflines of the houses
At night, I will be the moon.
I dream
I will sprout soon.

Oh Pliny! I said. That's lovely! And so modern, at least for you.

Thank you said Pliny, modestly. I tried to go against my instincts.