Timber

Don't die like a tree
erect with every bony limb
exposed for all to see
or toppled by the wicked whim
of someone on a spree
or brutally bereft of form
by an unpredicted storm
that inundates the tufted lea.

No, seek a peaceful bower for your sleep
away from all the sheep
that love to peep
through every little bough
so they can know
when you go
or weep.

And maybe the moon
will ask you to spoon
as a fiddling cat saws with glee
upon the taut strings
and nervously sings
but don't ever die like a tree.