Overlooking

The tree of longing that I
Watered, all these years.
Stout, lush green, supposed 

To bear fruits.

When it sulked without flowers.
The wait seemed strenuous and
I had to axe it up into bits to
Burn it piece by piece.

Now I celebrate the smoke
That's stuck around,
The pungence, the cough,
Irritation in the eyes.

But I somehow expect the songs
Of the birds that once nested
In the green shoots.

I hear and see some things that
Seep in from the cracks.
Overlooking the fact that
It's just a mirage.