A carving, a slow deliberate cut, curled petals sharp enough to splinter; known touch with fingers outstretched, following the grooves, the moist wooden harbor I fight to free you from.
I worshiped you once, as goddess and tree. Your heartbeat was stronger then mine, slow as molasses and timed for the season. Your roots went deeper, stretching far enough back to taste the earth.
And you danced. Oh, how you danced, your gown of red and yellow tattered by the song, your arms stretched to the sun and the moon and the stars. You danced; but you danced only for the wind.
I wanted you to dance for me.
—
Who will earn your tears?
Who will taste the evidence of your sorrow?
Who will kiss away the remnants of your joy?
I will.