Tree tops ( and other things you’ve yet to discover)

Tree tops

So your poem comes
when mine drums itself
against my thighs and
opens the eyes of old men
who remember the day
when they heard her voice.
She sang a low, soft song
meant for no one else.
Who can say what means more
my voice, my melody, or
your dirge, your droning
your awful berating verse.
This is not why we live.
We do not live for death.
He is nothing but an end,
a sweater to mend, a soul to rend.

So your verse withers
while mine grows from seed
across a network of vines and
surprises the mind of a child
who never thought of elephants dancing,
or zebras chiding cheetahs,
and things you’ve never considered.
With them we sing a silly tune
of sand dunes drifting
into the paths of kings and queens
who expected velvet things
and learned instead to love laughter.

So my voice echoes eras
bygones and begorras
when I mean nothing more
than a greeting and a cuppa
for a stranger I’ve known all my life.
How I’d welcome you.

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