this year I grew three trees
from the dust to the blue
with the assumption each
would teach
elm was the first,
a fleeting fumble
dripping in butterflies
yet gone before
the season was
next came the oak,
a sturdy promise
it was he who taught me
we rot from within
the weeping came third,
don’t all goods come in threes?
if only the sweetest blush
could float unwithered
blinded by branches
at nature’s cruel whim
my trees did not fall
but I did
love did not touch me
another buzz
another breath
it lingered
lingered
and left.
