Within the silence, which descends between
The waves of traffic, comes the quiet patter
Of droplets falling softly from the green
To brown ground, strewn with vegetable matter.
As one who weeps while in the stylist’s chair
To see trimmed tresses curling on the floor,
Do trees mourn when their leaves leave branches bare,
Or do they save their tears for something more?
The bleeding bark is cool beneath my hand,
Its scars are rough against my fingertips,
But feeling them, I start to understand:
It’s not from sorrow that the foliage drips.
From high above the rough and rushing sweep,
They find the world so lovely as to weep.