Our Tree

I came to our tree,

saw our tree

trying to die,

shedding her leaves

in desperate isolation –

autumn ruled the sky . . .

Winter came, and I came

to look for you,

where we once sat, under our tree.

I found you sad and thinking

under the spreading branches

of what was ours.

“We are strong at heart,

but weak of will!”, you said.

What did you mean to me?

Stumbling through words,

teasing meaning,

to squeeze truth in between

among tortured lines

that sound sublime –

should you play the part

of the phantom poet

who forever sings

and never forgets her lines?

You, whose poems are subliminal . . .

Your spirit calls the tune

to those who’ve waited long enough

for the woman in the Moon

who came down too soon

and spoiled all her choices

she had to wait

for a surrogate

of her, and others’, voices . . .

She could not lose,

she could not win,

her life opened up before her

she longed to hold Adonis

in her arms, but the thought

of him just tore her

apart from limb to limb

and so she wept and ripped her hair

all for the loss of him . . .

Now she’s dead

and laid in grave

in an English old oak coffin.

What can I say to you now my Love?

“Whatever will be, will be?”

Please don’t be so silly, my Love,

It makes me so angry.