Oh! The eternal sorrow of the fertile mind:
A mind that thinks of everything feels nothing
But its own descent into melancholy, unsure even
When that descent began.
It began, as I recall, in a garden:
It was the garden of the muses with colossal trees
Springing up from the earth and a river, crystal
Swell, running through it.
That seed of a melancholy winter which planted
Itself from a great oak tree in that garden continues
To grow even today. Even as I write, its twisting branches,
Its leaves which turned copper crisp in Autumn but cycle
Back onto the tree in spring time, returning from the
Fertile earth to my melancholy, fertile mind bough
Lightly in the wind.
And I am happy in a reserved, sorrow-filled kind of way,
Let this tree grow forever, let it numb me from feeling and
Teach me how to think in a world where everything is nothing
And nothing is everything. Let it guide me back to that winter
Of ambition when I thought I could grow a fertile tree from a
Little seed I found on the ground of frozen garden of stillness and