Philip Larkin

The Trees
—for Philip Larkin

The cherry tree—blooms once again
More pink than—the pale white hawthorne
For awhile the lawn—is covered
With a kind of—delicate grief

Each year it seems—they’re born again
And I get older too—each time
But instead of—aging tree-rings
My face gets—more and more wrinkled

Instead of blossoms—I shed checks
Yes, I keep the paper—moving
Money makes—the world go around
My world stays green—all year around