There is a lemon tree outside my window,
I'm sure it talks to me.
Whenever I'm alone at night
it whispers quietly.
Not jokes or songs or joyous tales
but descriptions of my hells.
It's bitter voice calls for the winds,
to blow and bend it's spindly limbs,
so it may jab and claw and scrape,
the windows of my lightless space.
It knocks and slaps as if with beat,
And dances on it knobby feet.
It screams and yells without a word,
But every sound is quite well heard.
It laughs and points and counts away,
The sorrows of each passing day.
It knows and chants and wills to be
The pictures that at night I see.
The pain, the tears the frowns and moans
Are images the tree intones.
And when at morning I awake,
It stands outside and knows I ache.
It smiles at me from far above,
And knows that I will never love,
For no matter where I try to hide
the pain I feel will not subside.
I hope one day to cut it down
And burry it beneath the ground.
Along with all my hurt amassed,
Perhaps by such be free at last.