The Tree

The Tree


When I open my bedroom window
in the morning, my almond tree is
standing there, a few yards away,
dressed in green and flirtatiousness,
her leaves flutter, as the eyelashes of
a good natured tart. As summer wears
on, her dress turns chocolate brown
and in September gives birth to sweet
almonds. Winter is not a good time
for her, loses leaves and only a grey,
bland bark stands between her and
mortification. To spar her blushes,
I pretend not to see her standing there,
first thing in the morning