The trees of my childhood
are not the trees of your
childhood.

Let me tell you about my
cedars; my forsythias
and honeysuckles;
the way I used to plant
cherry pits in the front lawn
because I was greedy for their
blossoming.

Lift up my skirt and I’ll show you
where the blackberry brushes had
scratched me.

Lay me down in a hammock
hung between your childhood and the
man you have become today.

And we’ll kiss once, twice,
and a third time for luck

beneath the cherry blossom petals
that I had fallen asleep beneath
when I was too young to know anything
but innocence.

And the dark bark will be a darker midnight
against the spring it blossoms.

Skeletal. Moonless.
So heavy from the
rain.

And your hand will fold a flower
behind my ear.

The petals will be
so extraordinarily
pale.