I Do Not Bother If It Does Not Really Fit.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

upon that high cliff
stands a tree
famous with all the
names that
the villagers gave
it.

some call it strong
and wise, a tree at
that upon a
high cliff just by
itself
without even migrant
birds on its
arms.

there is a bench
by the side of this
mountain facing the cliff
where the tree becomes
more visible.
all those who pass
simply sit there for
a while and
admire
though they never
really understand what
the matter really
was.

i sit there too
blankly, emptying myself
and wanting to
make the tree more
alive
in my emptiness.

there were other names
with deeper meanings
just like what the oldest
widow in the village
calls it
which i cannot remember
anymore

i am on the edge
of forgetting
and it jibes with
my emptiness
i sound in silence
to the flapping
of some broken
butterfly wings falling
down down the
cliff into the sea
with waves raging
against the rocks...

less the drama that
i indulge in,
deep within i call
the tree
Myself and i do not
really mind
if this matter does
not fit.