The Oak Tree

From the stump left open-wounded
like a woodcutter’s axe-place,
the tree is grown back.

We are hiding in high branches,
resting in the crook of an arm,
climbing to the oak’s last outreach.

Stanley-knifed remnant of rope
eats into the crossbar bough
bearing carved initials of first love.

Flinching at each hack,
the entire street gathered to watch,
tight-mouthed as if a hearse passed.

Cradling the lopped tree,
we laid it down to grass
whitening beneath its weight.

If I look up, I can see your feet,
the pressed leaves of your soles
dusted green as you climb.

Where the briars snagged your dress;
your face as you turn, hear your voice
willing me higher.

Published in Channel