The tree wants a brighter sun. The Tree wants clearer,cooler rain.
The Tree, its old limbs and buds cut away, want itself shaped and
Frost burns The Tree's tender new shoots in early Spring.
High Summer's heat withers it. It is delicate and tiresome.
It's sick scented blossoms and its small,bitter question
mark shaped fruits-all seed and core-are inadequate compensation
for my care. I often fear that,in a collapse of patience, I will turn The
Tree to kindling. Or hang myself-inverted-from it.
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