You walked in my body
not so long ago, stood
against my veins of trees
and watched me breathe water.
You believed you were sunlight
swinging in my branches
and compared yourself to air.
The Black-eyed Susan drooped
in pain when you pinched off
her petals and sang Love Me,
Love Me Not, hoping some human
might offer you more than me
and my scarce promises made
of rain and breath and shade.
When you lost the enchantment
that dwelled in you as quiet
as turtles, you left to live in silence
and seriousness. Now, it looks like
you should’ve spoken up for me,
and I’m sorry I taught you my stillness.
Looks like the last leaves are
falling and the birds are gone.
My creek you swam in, where
wild strawberries grew,
ran dry through what became
the endless summers of your absence.
In these years, when so much snow
became rain, I’m sorry that,
even in this heat, you hardened
into years of cold weather.
