Calling trees and children to put their noises away in their pencil-cases

And come sit at the table with their backs to the fire where the bones of a
thousand-league old willow are burning

Well-born trees are easily chilled they say, and they knot their lace handkerchiefs

The homebody willow gives off white smoke like disappeared fiancées
Translates its discontent in sparks
The willow is not expecting consolation

While the grief-resistant mandrake has no notebooks or family ties
The mandrake doesn't mix with the trees that shade the schoolyard
Keeps its distance from the oak's caustic foliage and that of the lime tree,
self-important in its transparency

There are no happy woodcutters