The city cut down the tree from my backyard
and saved the sawed bits to recycle
into money, what with the linnen so scarse, they say
with what else they can convey to me
it “died of a desiese”, they say
like the sick old man
who hangs
on the limbs of the branches
and as he hangs
when the sun’s gold reflects on his bruised cheek
I notice, and then the spirit of the tree says
it wants me to come away,and
show me an older time
the oldest it had been
as shade for two lovers
to share a kiss.
I take the rest of it’s memory
and bind it
carefully, and blistering my painted fingers,
I wrap up it’s contents
with my tears
and it’s own paper.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry
Golden Star Poetry 