"Poets put lovers under trees, and nobody asks
where that tree came from." The tree was there.
Just backdrop glimpsed in distances, in views
well-hung just underneath the sun and stars.
And lovers pull each other, drawn
to just such trees
nobody planted them. And no one knows,
or maybe someone does. Or anyway,
someone long dead
may once have known.
They did it just because
they thought a tree would look
quite good just there. They planted it
deliberately. Or just some squirrel,
who squirreled away a hoard with pride
and care - that's what squirrels do! -
and then, as promptly as you please, forgot
just what it did. Or where. Had done. Went on,
depositing such hoards as it could find
and fit, against the day
that it could find just one.
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