It was deeply rooted in the earth
And it sang to summer winds
And sang above two roadways' ends
In a voice like distant crowds.
Deeply rooted in red earth still
It is a mockery; it has no will
To live, to grow, to bend, or throw
Its leaves up like hands
Flipping green hair out of its face.
Its leaves are long forgotten now.
Its leaves are stained printer paper now.
It is a dead thing, a dried-up dead thing;
It can not feel. Only for me is it a mockery
When I hear the others around it sing
And it appears to believe it is planted here
Where two roads' endings meet.
I feel irony whispering in my ear.
Does it think it is still a tree
Like the others that tower above it?