From this old river bed
I cannot see the moon.
Trees are slung,
This way and that.
They twist and turn,
Stab and scratch.
Fighting the sky,
Fighting me.

The gangly, naked branches
are confused, you see.
The moon,
The moon and I are old friends.
Far older than those trees can remember;
As old as this dried up watershed.

These trees,
Like spider webs,
Tangle with my peace,
My joy, my love.
You see,
The stars and I are lovers.
But these branches bar their way
To me,
And leave me lonely.

If I was tall
I would cut them.
I would slash, thrash and wail.
But I am small,
Tired.
My frail bones can't stretch,
And their thick bark won't yield.
So as they stand and as I lie,
There is to be a rivalry,
Between riverbed-me
And those trees that hide my sky.