Tree Rumba by Elisabeth J. Ferrell-Horan

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 –

forbidding, foreboding

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.

Elisabeth J. Ferrell-Horan

Elisabeth J. Ferrell-Horan is a stay at home mom in Vermont raising two young boys, feeding her animals and dreaming in poetry. When not writing, she finds peace and inspiration working with her three very special horses: Deuce, Flynnie and Bees. They speak to her without using words.

 

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