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The Tree Will Be Reminded
The crystal clear skin
That exudes a peeling moon
To a half-crescent smile
Drowned when your waters
Emanated underneath the tree
Where you petrify with every
Abrupt departure, without notes,
Without gifts of flesh nor syrup-kisses,
The tree stood, chaste and pure, though
Decrepit for in the time of your furlough,
There’d be no one the tree’d let
Him touch his trunk, his branches,
His dead twigs and austere leaves
-
The rain had touched his porcelain wrinkles,
He felt it coldly upon his skin that
Wraps him in a mortal flame of summers
And winters; The grass pleads underneath
His roots tethered to the Earth
To remind him of the flustered world
That he breathes in, and so with crude words-
From damsels to old men and children,
He listen passionately, but not take it
To his viscera of rippled age,
The tree stood there, idle, stonily,
Desolate at the middle of the wonderful
Sequoias and petunias and daffodils
He remained subtle and still
As the dissipating dust on a moth’s marred wing
-
And so the moon-dame came back
With her fecund smile and lavish couture,
The tree, oh how he wishes to move,
To give her a verdant clasp of the soul,
To enter her soul, to put friction body upon body,
But not to make love, but to defeat the Sun
In its heat – and with that, he will come to pass
A moribund magnificence of a love stonily crafted
In between distance, in between seasons that
Reminded the tree of how he waited, weathered
Every cold breath of the monsoon and the tepid
Caress of the Sun’s burnt lips – he remembered it all
And wept for a minute and died for a lifetime,
Alive in structure, dead in soul – But the lady,
How alive in soul, and much more in features
She has forgotten about the tree – poor orphan of the world!
-
She dined, with a cloth pressed upon the tree’s roots –
With a man she did, and reveled
And let out a bounty of fruits and the ripeness of her lips
The tree frowned upon, and frowned within.
How reminded the tree will ever be, of how it is uncomplicated
To build a love, but tedious to make it last –
Especially if one soul does not come in terms
With the other - what agony!
poem
by
Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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