the tree

it sees:
endless fields of wildflowers, sprinkled like cinnamon by the sun
white gabled fences that stretch for miles
leaves like stars, emerald fireworks that expand and explode when they sway
and sappy sets of initials carved deep in its skin with permanence in mind
cotton candy clouds that float easily in a robin's egg river
it hears hollow heaves of pink lungs
and tastes strawberry-stained lips, the salt of sweaty palms
and nails made dirty by bitter soil
it watches as two sets of eyes refract, mirroring the melon sun.

but four lungs' final sticky breaths are eventually swallowed by
the night--jonah and his whale
and the only light is found in faraway vacation homes that hang quietly in the distance,
just out of reach.
fragrant blossoms will always snap and succumb to august's
suffocating and door-swelling girth
and soon the day is done--all that is left in the darkness is
the sound of the lonesome crickets' eerily winsome lullaby
serenading the night and its ghostly passers-by,
a wistful call to the shy moon, its sole response is no reply.

and sometimes, it wonders quietly to itself, can anything ever really stay?

well, whispers the wind, a tree must heal its scars too
(for better or for worse)
and each year, you will grow wider, stronger, taller and wiser
but keep within your long wooden sleeves
memories of yellow fields,
white gabled fences,
two pairs of hollow lungs,
and the bittersweet taste of
strawberry-stained lips.