Although he is as taciturn as ever
I tell the tree what is troubling my mind.
Ten minutes in, he still has no reply.
I carry on, not feeling in the slightest
bit mad (although I start to, just a little).
An hour in, tree clears his throat and says,
Perhaps next time you might trouble the flowers
instead? ‘But you’re a metaphor for paper,’
I say. But flowers might cheer you up, he answers.
‘They aren’t a metaphor for anything,’
I say. They might be; you never can tell.
I ask my cat what she thinks. Birds. Miaow.
Beyond those thoughts, I couldn’t really say.
I start to tell the flowers what I told
the tree. We heard, they sang (sang?). Look at it
like this: we’re pink, you’re pink; we’re delicate,
admit it – so are you. You’re basically a flower.
‘So when I’m talking to you flowers,’ I say,
‘really, I’m talking to myself?’ That’s right!
And thus it was I found myself less troubled.