Forgive my appearance, my Lady.
Last night before you turned out the light
we had the nicest chat.
The Mourning Doves
whispering secretly to one another as they do.
Something about an ice storm,
and how unkind the Robins were to leave me all alone.
When you can’t sleep, I know
my moonlit rustling leaves remind you of the sea.
But forgive my posture, my Lady.
I am heavy today,
There was no singing upon my branches this morning,
and it is not easy to lift my head.
Perhaps I’ll just reach my arms down to the Earth,
and lay myself down and rest awhile.
If I don’t wake up,
in the Spring will you tell the Cardinals not to feel bad if they don’t built a nest in my fallen self?
I will understand.
And I will remember their little ones from last year.
When I was not so old,
and still able to stand upright
and tap on your window to wake you in the morning.