Climbing Trees

A climbing tree and a little weed,
could give me all the afternoons I need,
emerging from the cold, dead ground,
on a Tuesday afternoon.

The cemetery is full of life,
beauty tainted with human strife,
so here I sit,
inspired to write,
as the sun sinks into the ocean.

The trees feed off the human remains,
their thirst is quenched by the occasional rain,
the afternoon sun is useless until spring,
until then it shines only on death.

But unlike those of us with flesh,
And eyes and toes and thoughts and breath,
trees don't stay dead,
the spring comes and they are alive instead,
and so when it's warm I'll come again,
on a Tuesday afternoon.

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