I sway outside a wrecked poet's window
daily I see his mind raked
by fingers of clawing creation
I know his smiles are faked

My fractal arms forever aloft
my waiting blossoms and leaves
see his progress on falling apart
a soul strained through so many sieves

Changing seasons, personal treason
troubled the poet till May
when the spring brought his desired muse
as I am sorry to say

This story's been sung time and again
through mine own branches told
if you hark unto the sweet spring air
you'll see it yourself unfold