In my poem of wisdom I’m a tree.
I don’t care if I’m original.
I don’t care if I’m everybody’s image.
I grow out of stone.
I stand in a wide field.
And when they hang the rope from me
I’m the same tree. And the girl
Who never weeps does not weep.
That, too, is okay. One day I will look up.
And my branches will be my tears,
my leaves will be my comfort.
And I will be the same tree, even cut down.
Even flaming on the fire.