Brother Death

[John Holland]

The old poet sat in the shade of a tree.
He pondered the riddle of blossom and bee.

He squinted his mind the better to see
as he searched for the truth. The magical key.

A long, long time he sat and thought
of women wooed and battles fought.

Of plastic trees and fruit of wax
of china eggs and income tax.

Of lizards drinking from his hand.
Nights spent buried in the sand.

He thought, “This is a funny place
to build a world. In outer space!”

“Or maybe this is inner space?
I’ll have to ask old what’s-his-face!”

For many years he would sit and think.
He forgot to eat and sleep and drink.

One day they found him sitting still
under that tree that grew on a hill.

He wore a smile but breathed no breath;
he’d gone away with brother death.