Every morning I limp to the window
sweaty and crotchety
still swooning from the night sweats, the
bad dreams that caught me –
to see what the trees are saying.
Today, the oft mild maple
I trust the most
was shaking her upright stick fingers
back and forth like a portend –
a bad foreshadowing, branches whistling:
Don’t come, don’t come
it’s really bad out here….
she’s so mad at you –
she tells me.
Just yesterday she was swaying to a song
I couldn’t quite hear
but it must have been beautiful as her hips
swayed as if in rumba –
Some lovers’ lips expand in rhythm
parting for the tongues –
a mother rocking her new baby;
all innocence: a fit like gloves.
But today, it’s those awful witch fingers –
ghostly ice shards haunt the windows
proportions of fear flooding in the cracks
Of my cacaphonic brain –
I’m an arsonist’s holiday.
Tumors of guilt, jealousy
ravishing the landscape of a former protégé.
My grudges laid bare
in a bloody, post-apocalyptic skirmish
then recoil in fear –
Well aware, their own actions
caused the great war within her; within me.
Still: How could she do this to me!
Mother nature knows what I’ve done, I suppose –
so she’s decided to blow her wrath all day.
To punish me and my tree
for our hubristic hope
that things might get better in the end,
in my head –
I deserve it, I whisper, I know it.
I’m going back to bed now,
to pray for a Cuban Guaguancó
to seduce the tree hugging hips of my maple; to
shift the lips of hate in myself –
parted to closed:
ovaline to train track.
To give me a little more hope tomorrow
that some day, might one day, be better than the last.