the cedar tree
bright …
a flash of light -
thunder clapped like cannons as
into the old tree
we scurried ...
the mouth of its little
hollowed-out gut, yawning like some
tired old man from a Dickens story ...
perhaps the chin of the
ghost of Jacob Marley, let loose in
horrid fashion from its jaw-
binding bandages ...
~ then found two youth so terrified …
midst forests deep and starry-eyed ~
the soft pine-needle
floor of the space inside was
quite long enough to lay down on
but not very wide
so we squeezed together like shoes in a box
rain pouring all the more
and dripping off the scarred cedar bark onto
her coal-black, jasmine-scented tresses -
damp ponytail resting coyly on
my bared shoulder …
~ like feather, soft, from angel’s wing …
brushed flesh and mind, meandering ~
‘what now?’
I could tell we both thought
and though unspoken
the question hung in awkward
silence between us
rain pattering like mice on a tin roof
epicanthal folds of her inky
almond Taiwanese eyes looking at
me for reassurance
though I had no more experience than she
in such situations ...
still, I crimped the edges of my
mouth up in the gentle attempt at a smile
and she returned it
eyes deep-sparkling with "yes" ...
~ that gaze abyss I plunged to death …
one languid look to catch my breath ~
odd, that we had
barely reached our teens
for what came after that first shy, testing
cotton-candy kiss, played out like
some grand romantic movie
on the big screen
becoming a magical dance of
confusion and excitement and frightened, fumbling flesh -
a rain-spattered dreamy interplay of
limbs that seemed to hold
time in its place …
'til we emerged hours later into the
golden glow of dusk
covered in soft scratches and pine needles
in a subdued post-passion delirium …
and quietly walked home
(in different directions)
through the dimming twilight mist,
never to speak of it …
again ...
~ young love, demurring, ought remain
thus vanished like her tears … in rain ~
well …
she moved away with her
family not long after
and though we had promised each
other to stay in touch
I only received one post card from her
and it was months later
telling me about a boy she'd met
and how they'd kissed on
their first date ...
as if what had taken place in that old tree
deep in the woods that rainy
July afternoon
was nothing but a lark -
no more than a dream or a charm or
thistle on the breeze ...
~ oh how could heaven let such be?
my soul was birthed inside that tree ~
except ...
it WAS more ... for me
it was the most REAL thing -
the most tender thing
the most precious
and sweet
and life-changing thing ...
it was the most fearfully beautiful
most wonderfully frightening
most exquisitely complicated thing
that I have ever, ever
known …
yet now, despite the ache that
pulls on my heart
despite this memory of
incomparable passion and sensitivity and turmoil
though her taste still dances in my
thoughts like confection to
pull me back to the delicate wonderments
of her satiny cappuccino skin,
sweaty-sweet, and baptized by the
balmy summer rain …
I am, to her,
all but a quotidian ghost …
of the gloaming.
Copyright © 2025 Gregory Richard Barden
|