So the bees make a bee line for the fruits
and the grasses hugged a tree by its roots,
but the fruits too, its peeling, its flesh belongs to the tree
and a bird returns home under its branches nightly.
And there in that dreamy patch their lives intertwine
these little lovers, faithfuls, ‘neath the shade of a tree.
I sit there too, in my posture seeming part of their stories
but not one, not the grass kissing my skin ever calls me his.