If Grandmother Tree could talk

She would only tell love stories,

Because there is enough tragedy in life

For fleeting flowers to sing of

And enough cruelty in love

For everlasting trees to notice.

 

She has stood through decades

Foliage waxing and waning

As affection is want to do.

She rocks and quakes with whispers

And secrets.

 

It’s true that Grandmother Tree

Is a hopeless romantic

And not every tree would write a romance

If trees were want to write.

But what better subject matter for one

Seen and lived through everything,

Than what is at the heart of everyone

 

The story of an hour

Starts with two performers:

She poured her love into lines

And into the final bow.

What under the spotlight loomed and sweltered

Vanished with the day of curtain.

Actors are a blank canvas

And she wanted to paint him with affection.

 

He, on the contrary,

Distinguished between character and artist

And did not return the sentiments.

He didn’t simply react with indifference,

But burnt the stalks of love at the root.

Her heart hurt with his loathing,

Which was the tale Grandmother Tree told

As her leaves dropped off for the winter.

 

From then on, the girl could only love in summer.

In the sunshine she could kiss and laugh,

Her wound healed in the heat.

But winters she froze her desire,

It felt wrong to love another.

 

She waited like a seed under frost, hoping to be thawed.

The cold numbed her to the desire of a third,

Who pined for her guarded mind.

Like an evergreen he loved in needles

Sharp and surviving

Through flurry and blizzard,

But unable to catch bloom or retreat from green.

 

All this the Grandmother Tree could see

And would share if words were leaves.

How love settles in a way

That entirely befits the magic and

Cruelty of nature.