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,
looking intimidated,
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?
stillfugue 
#1 by liv2write2day on March 11, 2011 - 11:46 am
Chilling depiction of a scene that reflects desolation, how sometimes nature speaks for us.
#2 by Carl on March 11, 2011 - 8:02 pm
Thank you for your comment, Victoria. It probably deserves to be re-visited by the speaker in the middle of summer.
#3 by Evelyn on March 11, 2011 - 12:22 pm
whew
that last stanza is downright amazing.
I know I said it before, but your poems get better each day.
#4 by Carl on March 11, 2011 - 8:04 pm
Oh, thank you, my friend. You cheer me on, give me my armor.
#5 by seabell on March 11, 2011 - 5:17 pm
Winter is depressing, in fact. Here is an award to cheer you up:
http://seabell.wordpress.com/2011/03/11/the-versatile-blogger-award/
#6 by Carl on March 11, 2011 - 8:41 pm
Thank you, seabell! That is very kind of you.