Overcast afternoon in February
the cherry tree in my back garden
is leafless, the outline of its bare branches
cupped upwards, classic candelabra,
its lines as clean and clear as any drawing:
and sitting in it are five birds still
and quiet as Buddhist monks meditating.
But this garden is not really mine at all,
although it’s registered in my name:
I’m just the latest temporal caretaker.
The real owner also owns the Buddhist birds
and He doesn’t need to prove His deed of title.
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