Thanks to recent technological advances,
This woman will be transformed shortly
Into a tree of her previous choosing.
What we have failed so far to identify
Is how to reconstitute her smile.
Ask the birds, you say.
Perhaps a painted smile might do.
Future worshippers of this tree
Could renew it,
Allowing it to remain pure
Has been a relatively rare phenomenon,
At least for the past two thousand years,
We have little precedence upon which to draw.
So sing instead, say the birds;
And the sun does until
The moon takes over
When its darkness
Arises or descends, depending upon
The position from which it is viewed.
Impatience never quickened anything,
Sister Earth says, located
Just below the Ms. Tree which
Recently began to bloom.
When two birds peck
At the same fallen, withered leaf,
What chaos results
Must be left to a local madman
Or madwoman to resolve.
Retirement into a shadow
Has also been advised for some.
But ghosts should remain
Where they've flown or been transported,
Their lessons having been fully absorbed.
A brown sea flows in stopped time.
Could it be a desert in disguise?
Hug a tree as you climb it.
How will it's bark respond
Before the leaves join
In their answer.
*Based on the opera Daphne by Richard Strauss
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