She said I miss you. He said be quiet.
So she was.
They didn’t mean to draw lines.
He tiptoed on it like a draw bridge
This was a solid structure.
It was the line she twisted around her waist,
and it’s tight pull was a comfort
Beauty in it’s immobile strength.
She was nothing more than a root.
And he walked precariously on her.
His leafy tendencies,
to fall and sway, to quiver and stay calm would explain
his turning green and orange and brown again and again.
As she lay stuck in the ground,
surrounded in meaningful dirt,
her extended branches feel his potential.
Spring will come but he will find
Some form of removal,
an excuse on justified repeat.
“But this is a tree!” she would scream,
She craved a line they could climb; she was
heaving them up and wrapping his palms around bare winter branches.
Tie a line to her and they may swing into a river come summer.
She grabs her waist, retracing a bone, her bark.
When the wind picks up, her rooted body
But she knew seasons;
When the wind begins
his leaves will drop.
She owns nothing but what grows,
and as he falls to grass
she realizes the impermanence of