Because you “never really understood poetry”
your poem deserves no title.
And because I never really understood you,
I should only have expected
your rotting limbs
could never hold me
and that this childhood fantasy
of climbing to your summit
would leave me on the ground, clutching to your corroded ashes
like a fool and his money.
Soon, we would be parted.
It was only a matter of time
before I realized
the kindling you gave me,
clammy and cold in my hands,
could never bear fruit its only use
to burn
and let the words take flight
echoing
empty
meaningless
and disappearing,
popped like bubbles
on a giggling child’s fingertips.
It was a sight to see your tree die.
To go from its splendor,
virginal pink petals
and ruby red apples
the size of a fist,
to a knotted and stripped skeleton
withering and dying,
before my eyes,
the crumpled leaves
lazily rocking downwards,
the apples
devoured by maggots of selfishness.
Adam only could imagine my fall
had you given me even once slice
of the sour fruits you bear
and let me devour the spoiled core,
my eyes clicking open
in the perfect moment
before you banished me from your garden.
Thankfully,
I left under my own power,
a crawling snake
using its last strength
to slither between your thick hedges.
nearly broken, out of breath,
cursing your garden’s keeper,
but under my own power.
And now, I till my own soil
and plant trees
that bear sweet and giving fruit
dangling agilely like ornaments
weighing down the strong branches
which bend and tighten
under my grasp
but would never think to release me.
And I, I cite your splintered stump
aloud as a lesson learned.
