How calmly does the olive branch
observe the sky begin to blanch,
without a cry, without a prayer,
with no betrayal of despair.
Some time while light obscures the tree,
the zenith of its life will be,
gone, past forever.
And from thence,
a second history will commence,
a chronicle no longer gold,
a bargaining with mist and mold.
And finally the broken stem,
the plummeting to earth, and then,
an intercourse not well designed
for beings of a golden kind,
whose native green must arch above,
the earth’s obscene corrupting love.
And still the ripe fruit and the branch,
observe the sky begin to blanch,
without a cry, without a prayer,
with no betrayal of despair.
Oh courage! Could you not as well,
select a second place to dwell,
not only in that golden tree,
but in the frightened heart of me?