Hating A Tree — An Exercise In Futility

I know hate is unreasonable,
a waste of energy and emotion,
especially when directed against
a thing which has no emotion.

Knowing the truth of this, however,
does not prevent the rise of ire and irritation
for I do well and truly despise the river birch
which resides in my front yard.

It is an ugly thing; thin, spindly branches
which droop and hang low,
falling to the lawn more often than
a disillusioned wife drops condescending criticisms.

It exhibits no pride of appearance,
none of the majesty or mystery of its
white barked cousin, its peeling and shedding
more like a quarantined severe eczema test case.

I cuss the thing daily, scowling at the scattered
twigs and branches on the lawn,
a spiteful replenishment of what I picked up
the day before. I really hate that tree.


1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

One response to “Hating A Tree — An Exercise In Futility

Some of what I write is true, some is fiction; most is merely possibility.

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