crooked

everything mends just a little bit crooked.

i lock up the doors and crack the windows open.

they cut the tree in the alley, and i knew it the morning after.

just the barren rings left behind.

bleeding sap.

bending in the garden, surrounded by the bulbs,

i hear my father speak.

the sap is healing.

i thought i was witnessing the end.

but there is some peace

in being wrong.

our voices pass in waves through the telephone lines

and i know her laugh like i know the sky.

we tell stories

like we are prophets.

and i cannot speak about her without comparing her to everything i see.

because her presence remains.

she left though.

they left.

i am a barren tree, alone in the alley.

bleeding sap.

but if you bend in the garden you hear my Father speak.

the sap is healing.

the wound closes, perhaps a bit crookedly.

and i wince at the thought of fingers

passing over that place.

but it will heal.

everything mends just a little bit crooked.

xx