The tree sits high overtop a Paris cafe.
In the spring and the summer the leaves flourish,
As the people chatter below.
They speak and they talk
And they soliloquize as people want to do.
And the leaves take it in again and again–
Absorbing the shit from below.
Until in the autumn it is time to go.
So the leaves fall–weighted with talk.
Then the tree sits alone all winter
Listening to the chatter below
Wishing for it’s fine leafery
To stop the squalor below.
And then in the spring,
When the leaves come again,
The tree breathes the proverbial
Breath of ease–
When the leaves take the brunt
Of the chatter below,
And the tree can just be a tree.
