“Come down from the branches,”
said the wise man to the tree
in which an angry skeptic sat,
who may as well be me.

At the bottom of the branches
two boughs began their twist,
and there, he said, you simply
make a claim, “Does God exist?”

Thirsty rake come slake your Summer
on yellow lawns laid thick with wine.
Fill with fall your hungry fingers
before the trees knock bare and dry.