The Trees That Never Turn
Our love became a thing to mourn
Every time the wind rattles the dead leaves, I bite my nails. And I suppose, every time the wind whisks them away to reveal new sprigs of grass, she bites hers.
The tree in my yard never sheds.
The tree in hers never blooms.
I’m not sure when it started, perhaps when we were young. Each of us owning a tree — a tree that never turned.
It came about slowly, leaves yellow, brown, auburn. My tree’s white blooms held their post, resolved to stay, clinging firm.
Then Spring followed. Bursting colors, life reborn. But the tree in her yard ignored the signs, tired and dry, unconcerned.
“What’s your name?” she asked, twirling hair, feet raking the dirt.
She was pretty, flirty, dangerous, lovely. “My name’s Osborn.”
“Cute,” she offered. “My name’s Byrne.”
“Thanks,” I said, a shy return.
Fall came again. Trees dropped their gifts, nut and acorn. Mine scattered white petals on the grass. Hers refused to give, remaining taciturn.
I should have seen it coming, my spirit should have warned. She would never offer life. Like her tree, a spirit still unborn.
