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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
Added by Poetry Lover
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