I Think to Lie Beneath the Soil

I Think to Lie Beneath the Soil

And thread a little tube

That grows beyond my use.

The Tree, all trees

They do not wonder if they love; they stand, and try.

Because usefulness is but a net

We cast to name our fear—

To prove we’re something measurable

To any listening ear.

Yet scorn of use, too, often hides

In garments finely spun—

Pretending it is poverty

While richer than the sun.

Or worse, when it is nothing but a self-patronizing lie.

Trees would never offer words

Nor tilt a pious limb.

Trees shelter birds and drop their leaves

And asks no praise from whom or what.

And I, built my house from nothing to nothing,

With suspicion as the one and only gate,

Might envy worms who speak

In silence, and in weight.