OnlineBookClub.org

If I plant a tree where I buried her,
Will that tree remember my touch?
When the tree grows as she decays,
Seeping out the remaining resemblance,
That the corpse had to my girl,
Maybe its leaves will be the shape of her eyes,
Will they wilt like she did in my arms?
I can imagine her scent in the flowers,
Stealing all the bees away,
Much to the chagrin of her neighbours.
Then turning into fruit, delicate, shining,
Like she was under the sun.

I see her whenever I close my eyes,
So I imagine her image is burned into my brain,
Was it the same for her?
If it was, I have some hope,
That when I come visit the tree,
Tomorrow, or as an old man,
And fall asleep under its shade,
From high above, she’ll send me something,
A leaf, a flower, or a fruit,
So that when I wake up from her memories,
I’ll find her in my arms.