Gold dust from the stamen falls
upon her hand as she reaches
for the purple silk of iris petals,
drinks the sweet juice of honeysuckle,
breathes in the rich scent of roses.
Somewhere else
shrill shrieks of infants’ cries
shatter the stillness,
shoulders drop and breasts sigh
from too much sacrifice,
love falters and dreams die
by the side of a road.
But here in the garden for the first time
sweetness and silk and gold dust
are all the girl knows.
Their branches hung over the river,
and a child could lean against their trunks to dream
instead of standing on a concrete edge,
when there were trees.
Their colors lined residential streets,
softening the edges of civilization.
A child looking at them raised his gaze to the skies,
when there were trees.
Their leaves shaded the siesta of summer afternoon
and when fallen, laid a blanket over burrowing bees, warming them till spring,
when there were trees.
This world had enough wonder to keep us alive,
to survive wars and plagues and small-town gossip,
when there were trees.
driftwood 