After rain, sunlight scatters down
Bright zest of sky
Brushed into blue, a stale old cloud
Remains an IV drip line curled
Like an old man’s frown
The ground knows it doesnt stay
Knows of misted up water, throwing down through shroud
The tree long to see all sorts
Reaching out, growing every day

Old Man’s tears not just morning dew
Tired eyes of deep bruised purple
Not deep enough for the tree
Will he feel too when the rainfall goes?

When the water wisps off
A sun-burn of bark, their scaling skin
Bound in ground, burning in the noonday sun
Save their kind, they drop them to the floor
Their warm grasping shadows droop over
Growing their, same soil all for them to see more
To be dug by squirrel and worm
Hold their station firm
Old Man cloud storms a over a new hill