Evening: The Red Tree (Piet Mondrian), Sonnet #513

I have never dreamed of the tree,

Though I believe it dreams of me.

Leafless, as if empty of thought,

It blushes in the setting sun,

Emotionally overwrought,

Blossoming caught out of season.

It’s inner branches, clotted, dark,

Hide the almost asleep catbird,

(Inventor of the millionth word),

Whose claws are locked on ragged bark.

The red tree stretches to the sky.

Beneath, I sleep and dream of love,

Or old battles — sometimes I fly

Under the sun, sometimes above.

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My Human Disguise.