Poem 2

What Happened in the Tree

High above the reaching hands of a hopeful evening
With all the limbs and joints tensed about the branches of weathered wisdom
Are all the makings of a fairytale, wrapped up with a bit of string.
Untie the bow, but be ready to catch the pieces as they fall, for
Gravity—the enemy of slow progress—pulls it all to the ground.
But fear not; fear not the bitter cold or coarse bark, biting at fingers
We are pillow propped, suspended in smoke-puffs of silence,
And I promise if you turn inside-out, I’d follow suite
In a moment, in a heart-beat: I would tell you anything in that tree
Or anywhere you would have me. 
If only you would have me. 
This mess, inside-out, where a hand might pull away the tough skin,
Well worn facades, false pretenses and see through the scattered branches,
Is all falling now. 
Falling as you move to jump down.
But don’t go. 

You move to jump down, but cannot leap 
Forgive me. Forgive me.
With baited breath behind my lips, 

the subtle hands and warm fingers of a desperate
Attempt to save the moment,

 catch the pieces of a shattered fairytale as our skin collides.
Mistaken… Shamed with the words ringing between my ears,

your voice is punishment enough.
Just go. Leave me here. 
Let the pieces fall.
Let them all fall. 

No heart of mine wanted a fairytale.
No great love affair ever took place in a tree.
It was a foolish girl who thought she could climb to the top and find happiness. 
With gravity—the enemy of slow progress—pulling at her heels with a bit of string.


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