‘Mouthing words’

Two shadowy specters,

sharp lines of hollow

cast by the withered elm

outside my window,

where a rope swing once hung.

I remember when my lines snapped,

and the rubber rolled to the edge

of asphalt,

before autumn

filled it with dry leaves,

like a ball pit fit for squirrels.

And they never were

able to find acorns

in that empty center,

though they played

as if it didn’t matter.

The tree laughed at us both—

pursuing the lifeless

with precious little time left.

From our first breath,

even full-grown,

it began counting circles

till our deaths.

So I am writing in black ink

to commemorate those moonlight twigs,

waving archetypes across my wall.

I’ve grown up,

don’t need the shapes,

and woodland creatures share this warmth.

What’s a woodland if it can’t lose one?

Plus, I brought acorns,

and my hands cast kernels

over pulp,

as my fingers thorn

my heart for meaning.

Warm from the fire,

my silhouette presses

against the forest,

I wonder why, or

even if I’m a cliché.

Maybe I’m bad;

maybe, if you are,

you can’t ask.

-N&A