So No One Knows Who Is Sin

The low, pollarded shrub,
Denuded and grisly,
Threatens to not blossom.

You want it to, badly.
All the other trees have.
Their blossoms have all leafed.

The little place you rent
Is cheerful with the spring
And fresh irrigation.

The high cliffs make the clouds
Look even puffier,
And the various birds

Sing like they’ve lost their minds
Enthusiastically.
This desert is heaven

In spring when the angels
And gardens are open
To behaving themselves

Ahead of summer’s hell.
But that pollarded shrub.
Stare at it. Stare at it.

Of course, it isn’t real.
None of this ever was.
It’s your favorite kind

Of coarse allegory,
One where the play plays out,
Full of morality,

The characters and acts
In their assigned places,
But their names are left out.