Evergreen
Look at that strange little tree down there. Its leaves are green,
While those of all the others are brown and half blown off.
Look at the man who looks down at the tree. He is old
And tired, aching in various joints, and one of his legs has
Cramped. He's more akin to those wind-ravaged trees
Than the one which holds out, but, within his mind, he is not
What he'd see if he looked in a mirror. He still thinks
His leaves are green.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Editors' choiceWritten on 2024-11-14 at 21:42
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