Periphery
of a shady tree
Ash and skin
and they blot
Brown and green
lady rot
Birds so small they
fly
Leaving pancakes desert
dry
Asparagus sees the drought
To weave
practice the Cinnamon doubt
I can't strum strings and
sticks
The leaves patter through
holding frail light-feathered twigs
And the tree rustles,
hear it howl my name
So let the birch tree sing
Please let it say I'm
happy