Bought a tree in a pot,
took it back to the flat to occupy a nook
where sunlight guttered from a lack of air.
A tree in a pot is an odd thing to see.
Roots are not meant to resemble a club foot,
a wrist without a hand, an unthinking fist.
Grotesque the feelers with no way to grow
but endless recursion, open, shut —
a dead brain in a body automatically fed.
Branches without birds look out at birds without branches.
Only the cat on the windowsill seems lonely
for whatever all of us once were living for.
For lots of more cheerful tree-related links, visit the latest edition of the festival at trees, if you please.