I am the dead tree outside,
Still standing despite heavy winds.
The poet from the window piles on his conjectures;
I was supposed to fall six months ago.
Spiting this man, I stand more firm,
Even with decay all about’
This charge proves my obstinance,
That man of flesh knows not those of wood.
My leaveless branches are a sign of demise,
but the situation is also a boon;
My nakedness decreases surface area
So the wind cannot batter me as it does my live kin.
My bull’s head doesn’t make me invincible;
One day the man in the window will be there to hear my fall,
And he’ll think of George Berkeley,
Then continue on with his metaphors.
He predicts my death not as a poet,
but as pseudo-scientist,
I hope, at my demise,
He attends my copse as a poet