All February long it filled me with the black bile.
Melancholia. And with poor humour, broke trees like hearts:
Covered them first in freezing rain so the barks glistened,
then, when thick with this glaze ice and soundly insulated,
in the ugliest fashion, broke the over-stretched structures.
Come summer, those hit the worst would not green, not
roadsides, riversides, front yards, backyards or city parks.
Wholesale torn apart whether tall or short,
many became hazards in the end, yet even so, in
the blond to blood tones of sapwood and heartwood —
in these secret chambers that enable life — was a promise to give more,
as if unaware of the power saws that would mince their souls;
Looking forward instead to the surgeons who would preserve them.
The red stains inside one of the fallen
was blood evidence, the sight of which recalled
her last breath — A spike in the frosty air that
curled up slowly before it disappeared.
It left in the surrounding air a recording that said:
“I too have shuddered and suffered in silence. Look!”
So I looked. And in looking
intook: absorbed like scars from cutting words,
her pain. It came in silently on my breath,
and in the process I advanced a season
Quicker than I had thought possible.
The fall had happened. But the end was infinite
and about to defy all funerary expectations,
for, from that same river I’ve cried enough to fill,
streamed a measure of relief for what might sprout &
for all that awaits a chance to by any means, reform.
And, with crowns pastel, to spring.