By his tree, when first she saw him,
she thought to run away,
and leave him there, all brown
and green, but wholly male,
a shadow of the spring pale leaves,
and dancing limbs.
But he was very gentle, saying little,
offering a shoulder firm as
any stalwart tree, then arms
that swayed and curled
around her body as the wind
began to rise and gust.
By summer they were trysting,
warm beneath his spreading boughs
and darkened leaves, and when she rose
she’d pause to brush away the
ash seed spilled like pearl strings
on her legs and lips and hair.
Until the day she saw a sapling,
rooted in a neighbor lady’s yard,
a smile upon the neighbor’s
pretty, kiss–bruised lips,
a pair of ash seeds in the
neighbor’s tousled, curling locks.
And now there are no ash trees
on her land, or saplings either,
rooted up, and sawed, and burned,
though when the wind blows
she can almost hear his cries, as pale
and cold as ashes in an urn.
Marcie Lynn Tentchoff is an Aurora Award winning poet/writer from the west coast of Canada. Her work has appeared in such magazines as Weird Tales, On Spec, Dreams and Nightmares, Talebones and Mythic Delirium, as well as in various anthologies and online publications.
Poem © 2007 Marcie Tentchoff. All other content copyright © 2007 ByrenLee Press
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