Carcanet Poetry

The book contains
only recipes for winter, when life is hard. In spring,
anyone can make a fine meal

I was not
permitted to prune it but I held the bowl in my hands,
a pine blowing in high wind
like man in the universe.

But the trees were everything.
And how sad we were when one died,
and they do die, despite having been
removed from nature; all things die eventually.
I minded most with the ones that lost their leaves,
which would pile up on the moss and stones—
The trees were miniature, as I have said,
but there is no such thing as death in miniature.