Shall I unfriend the tree
when her bark offends me
with its mourning of dead leaves?
Should I unbehold the golden
daffodil when he is brown and old
with his genes unfolded on the floor?
Will there be no more likes and loves
of petals and buds when their pouting blood
lives under my nails and furs my thoughts?
Can I just block the constant feeding
and do the hard-important bleeding,
digestion, work of heart and fingers?
Will the page break space of winter
let me bring that summer into
this room and let things scroll by the fire?