Folk Song from a Cherry Tree in Marx Subdivision

Be wary of how we choose to perceive
melancholic leaves, spindly
on our blossomed cherry trees.
The blue birds sung, like
a family fighting
on the stairs after their father died,
in the long winded hop fields
of north I-95.
“Little birds of the sun
of Moon
of Azoth
We are but the beloved son he saw.”

The song becomes a rage aria
in sotto voce
And one bird,
the bluest bird of all,
has stopped his voice
only incorporating a
head shake
or
a
head
nod
Soon the other voices were smoking.
Piddled out, a cigarette for one
a bottle of Crow for the other
tears, worries, resentment of them all.
From here
I'll retreat pell-mell.
This spring will be a hard one.

But I would rather stay with a good tree and a rock nearby
than be a foolish man
and choose the sun and loose sand.