There’s an old mean tree
in front of my mental hospital.
All of the branches are angry,
every single one.
March, and it won’t have leaves this summer,
Round pods, perhaps for seeds,
look like death stars. One bombs you,
you’re dead. You are. Try to count them.
Stands over the Buddhist garden,
the garden in deep fear,
shivering, naked and lonely.
I long for a place that looks like a place
that will make me better.
Does it need Adirondack chairs?
Does it need something that protests loudly
that we might survive the death of our winter?