Twig on a tree through my window
knows sign language, I’m sure.
Branch fingers waving
to his lover across the road.
He bobs and bends in the breeze.
It’s a mystery to me,
why this waxy green tree,
with love in his leaves,
doesn’t leave his roots
and **** soil
from the same straw as his lover
across the road.
One day she’ll grow old,
wilt, then timber.
Will he remember
his failure to uproot,
to shoot a vine across a power line,
just to intertwine
for one moment
in time?
