The Poet

I sit beneath this lonely willow tree
and know, somehow, its tears are shed for me.
That something still can weep helps calm my fears.
My own eyes have been dry so many years.

Uh oh, hold on a second, I misspoke –  
It seems it’s not a willow, but an oak.
I mean, they look a lot alike to me.
Who pays that much attention to a tree?

Good thing I googled it to double-check,
but now my metaphor is shot to heck.
(Yeah, yeah, it’s not a metaphor, whatever.
You pedants think you’re all so bloody clever.)

Hey, Siri, does an oak tree cry?  Well crap.
I should’ve started with this nature app.
Let’s see – blah blah, deciduous, skip that part,
but hey, what’s this I read about a heart?

“The heartwood is the center of the tree” –
That surely sounds poetical to me!
Now, where was I?  Oh yeah, beneath the will—
er, oak tree just outside my windowsill.

A hundred lonely winters has it stood.
(Wait, do they live that long?  They do?  Oh good.)
Its heart, grown strong, lends strength to mine, grown cold – 
Forget the weepy willow stuff, that’s gold.

© 2019 Mark Simpson