by Michele Bardsley

Created on: June 02, 2008   Last Updated: July 16, 2009

Fruit from the Bitter Tree

The bedroom window frames the backyard:
Blue sky, green grass, old memories.
There is an old oak tree with gnarled limbs.
Once, a tire swing dangled from it.

Birds flutter branch to branch: Chirp. Chitter. Chirp.
The oak tree has a story, too.
It remains silent. It knows how to keep secrets.
Once, a boy scaled its wide trunk.

I divorced the father and sold the house.
This beautiful spring day mocks my sorrow.
I have come to say good-bye to the tree.
Once, a mother held a picnic under its leaf canopy.

I cannot think of the right words.
I cannot express the whirl of emotions.
The tree requires nothing of me. It is content.
Once, a pet hamster was buried near its thick roots.

The bedroom window frames the backyard:
Blue sky, green grass, old memories.
The oak tree stands firm, unaffected by human dramas.
Once, a tire swing dangled from it.

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