Near-Distance

We are near the point where the tree of life,
     Or so it is affectionately called,
Stretches down its branches with outspread limbs,
Seeming to call forth the grass and clover.

Silhouetted against the sky,
     Where birds rest their wings and sing,
The smallest red buds begin to grow,
Foretelling leaves and summer and cricket songs.

The scent of damp earth in the tree's shadow
     Rises unseen to tempt the watcher.
Until the sun fades behind the clouds,
Making the whole earth a shadow.

The claws of the old, gnarly tree
     Upon this happenstance,
Seem to grope for death
So that grass and clover might live.