The Tree

Oh to be free of myself, With nothing left to remember, To have my heart as bare As a tree in December;

Resting, as a tree rests After its leaves are gone, Waiting no more for a rain at night Nor for the red at dawn;

But still, oh so still While the winds come and go, With no more fear of the hard frost Or the bright burden of snow;

And heedless, heedless If anyone pass and see On the white page of the sky Its thin black tracery.