You whistle tiny teardrops with the wind that blows my way,

and tell me of the sorrow that you face from day to day.

The peonies yawn then listen closely to your mournful violin,

and I think of every death you've seen then take a sip of gin.

You whisper of the tree that you've fed time and time again,

though just to see her fall whilst new sap's carried by the crane.

The veery sings her hymn, and the daisy slaps her wrist

for every joy she may remember now is faded in the mist.

You wonder why your hair's no longer green and thick as rope,

then remember your own children had to eat and had to hope.

The willow wipes her tears from her rugged, salty face

for she now knows that weeping just for her is nothing if not base.

When you cradle your new child in your arms you must not sweep

heavy holds on her for soon she will be Death's, not yours to keep.

So wither 'way now as we ride you 'round the sun and don't look back,

just ignoring that when we see light all you can see is black.