Counsellors

Counsellors   

“Try,” said the sun

to the autumn tree,

and draped harvest warmth

on its withering.

     And nothing was changed

     in the tree’s sinking.

“Try,” said a brown-backed      

bee in spring,                              

scrabbling to sip

from a threadbare bloom.

     And nothing was changed

     in the tree’s slow ruin.

“Try,” said the summertime

child who played,

climbing crooked limbs,

dreaming dappled shade.

     And nothing was changed

     and the child grew away.     

“Don’t try,” said a star

a thousand years burst.

“My afterlife’s gleam         

ignites the frost.” 

     And nothing was changed  

     by duration’s boast.

“Don’t try,” said a root

in the secret soil.

“When green, you split rock.  

Now lean with the gale.”

     And nothing was changed

     and the tree toppled whole.