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.

 

The swing creaks under two generations

A deep sigh punctuates the air

As beer comes to the old father’s lips,

Crickets reminding him how many years

He’s spent with his son on this porch.

And night owls ask him when they will end.

 

“you know, I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout your girl”

               “uh huh?”

“She’s smart, all right…”

               “uh huh”

 

The son took his cue to sigh

Passing his gaze through the cold heavy air

Watching the tall grass blow in the breeze,

And moths float toward the porch light,

Going nowhere,

After a false moon.

 

“Could you picture her here?

She ain’t really a country girl.

I rocked you on this porch swing,

You chased fireflies in this field.

Tumbling down, stained by this very grass

Did she ever get stained by grass as nice as ours?”

 

The son looked at his dad’s deep blue eyes

Deep not just in color—

The same as the rustic sky—

But in memories.

Memories of fishing in the backyard

Rides on the tractor

And loving among the thistles, owls, moths,

Cattails, bass, dear, chickens, and old Sal the hound.

His face was wrinkled by the son’s warm embrace,

He saw all of this as he stayed silent.

 

“Boy, I sure do love her…

Especially since you love her,

But I ain’t never known a woman

With a law degree

And boots with them heels

Who was happy out here.

She smells like smoke and city and speed

And I thought I raised you in the country air”

 

“Papa, you taught me to love nature”

“Sure did”

               “That’s what I’m doing”

 

The hound barked from the porch, and came over

To join in the conversation.

Adding the thump of his tail against

Worn grey wood

To the song of the farm.

 

“Pops when I see her hair blowing

In the car when she drives way too fast

Or when I get a message about her day

Of long classes

I see nature”

 

“She’s a storm, unpredictable but

So lovely in its madness.

I can’t keep up but I love tryin’

Like running in the rain.

We live out here in one type of world

And she comes from bustle and city,

But there’s nothing unnatural about how

Her eyes glow and shine after a long day’s work.

As pretty as the constellations in fall,

I swear to you”

 

The dad’s smile creeped up

And the owl no longer seemed critical

But like he was harking for details

“Who? Who?”

“Go on boy…”

 

“Dad you taught me that even weather

Lightning, fire, storms

Were beautiful.

She isn’t our quiet field, or serene pond

But she could be the wind and rain that ripples it”

 

Just then, a trout jumped

And the moths kept searching for Diana

And the old man heard the voice of his

Long gone wife in his head.

And felt how long it’d been since they had

Seen any rain.