The Trees That Reached for Him

The reservoir is overcast, 

a tinge of grey clouding yesterday's bursting blues and whites. 

A boy I used to know sits on a fallen tree limb. 

His rubber soled shoes are wet and resisting the rocky sand. 

Tall, erratic trees, who know not which way to grow, 

are dispersed all around him, screaming his name. 

The birds are not out today. 

The sun is hiding, leaving a roundish, burning hole in the sky above. 

The boy seems preoccupied, he does not yet know of my presence. 

But wait--he rises and looks at me, as though possessed, holding a steady glance--he heads spellbound towards me. 

The wispy trees all around look like they are calling for him. 

His warm brown eyes are suddenly dressed in black circles. 

His teeth seem more jagged to me now that he is in full focus. 

His awkward lankiness is something I am suddenly embarrassed by. 

I remember taking off my shoes and walking on this sand, 

impervious to the harshness of the rocks. 

In my best dress, I stood strong; believing, overzealous. 

I ate every word he handfed me--it all went down so easily, that it must have been true. 

The muggy water washed up to my feet, 

kissing my toes, distracting me from the sting that must have been there all along,

that I do not ever remember recognizing. 

My mother said, "it's nobody's fault," fighting to be audible between my desperate sobs. 

I am not enough to bring him back again.

photo taken circa 2007