Saturday, June 28, 2014

Autumn Song

Not more than two years before,
I sang you songs. Wrote you unexpected words.

"Like clear, fresh water," you said.

Not more than two years before,
I promised oxygen to your core.

Like saplings on a hill, young, supple and sure.
We grew our roots side by side, intertwined. I watered yours, you watered mine.

I felt new, you by my side.
Feeling the hum of your energy inside.

"You carry electricity in you," I said.

Our leaves grew thick green, and multiplied.
We were healthy and strong, thanks to our tangled roots.

Love was our shared mycorrhiza.

And from upon that spring hill,
We looked out in one direction.

Not more than two years before,
You and I, we chose our course.

Our vision sure, we set to work
and weathered our storms.

For a while I looked so hard,
I forgot you by my side.

I felt first a lack of hum.
Your electricity withdrawn.
And when I looked, you were gone.

I grew these roots for you to share,
Upon this hill that once was bare.

Now this autumn air
blows a wind, ominous and grim.

This lonesome tree, upon this bare hill,
Waits for spring and your return.

When once more,
the hair on my arm stands enough just to tell there's electricity in the air.

Would that: new spring should come, this sapling tree will fondly lean toward its lover once more.

The soil richer than ever before, from the leaves of fall and the tears, most of all.