Arbre Gravé
The sun creeps closer to this willow tree,
casting out the shadows and saying goodbye to the night.
As its light dapples between my shifting leaves,
so does a boy run up the rolling hill to greet me.
He does not speak, for that would be foreign this early in our cycle.
He rests against my coarse bark, the pressure almost nothing,
and compared to the harsh winds and tearing rain, it feels the most like something.
When he was smaller,
he would pluck leaves from my vines, of which I am happy to give.
Sap welled up from the wound, sweet,sticky, and disgusting,
and he shook his hands, quickly dispelling my presence fromhim.
If I could laugh, as he does, I would. Naturally, every tree bleeds the same;
he should not be surprised by the priceof the games he plays.
Sometimes, being a bit older now,
he would lie betwixt my roots and sleep
deep and soft and cradled in my twisting arms
he makes a pliable pillow of the moss encapsulating me
–Spanish and Sphagnum–
hanging thickly from my branches, clinging softly to my roots,
where he rests and breathes.
The wind rustles through me, startling and true,
and I watch as a spark of light dances across his forehead,
stealing his sleep away from me.
Today, though, older even still,
he has a book.
Today, he reads aloud to me.
A tale of knights, ofdamsels, even of talking trees.
and almost desperately, I wonder if he wishes to speak to me.
My answer comes swiftly, a hand grazing over my too-rough trunk
as his voice swells and wanes with his story.
If I could choke, I would.
Sputter and stutter and shake at the world.
As it is, I rustle my leaves like a dog,
trying fruitlessly to tumble this embarrassment off of me.
As I fake outrage to mask my shame–
my leaves shake hastily around my trunk,
and I’m sure, as I see him stifle down a sly smile,
that the boy is imagining me
to have hands hiding away my reddened face.
I think I shall love him forever,
the thought strikes me suddenly.
Treasure the name he once engraved upon me.
And yet, how could this be sudden,
when it is this exact truth
he himself has carved into me.
First with a knife and his name,
now with his hand–
with his skin touching my too-rough bark.
As my body shields him from the sun’s harsh light,
and the wind’s rapid toiling.
I know I shall love him forever.