I often fail to forget
what took too well to my memory.
Whenever I forfeit will and relent,
my walking trips over its lone pair
of steps and upsets the solitude
at the first catch of itself.
Path stones jab into the sole,
the batch of old Sycamores we kept finding,
they miss the touch of the dancing pair
that brought them an early essence of Spring,
flirting into spins a smitten wind
we made at their toes.
You pointed to
the branches renewing themselves.
Maybe you know, they’ve been
shedding their skin ever since
we detached hands by the river, now,
all too shimmery of a draw
for my inconspicuous
slide into evening.
I caught cold absences of you
from the things we loved together,
things hacking an unpleasant blame
at me in reeling wind.
I do believe the trees
are throwing an angry
din my way,
Will I forever self-condemn
though we both agreed to
The Sycamores are trees that
don’t like dwelling on the loss
of bygone seasons and their
But I am an effigy –
no better dressed than in
the dead skin of a winter
I cannot divest – a target for shame,
hands tied and agonized
by their valid protests.