My husband and I share a place by the tree.
One day, the sound of his voice calls out to me.
From out in the fields, through a window to the sink,
He calls me to come, to sit, and to think.
I yearn for his company, and seek it I will.
I leave my one dish unwashed by the sill.
I pluck a flower from a vase, his favorite, marigold
And leave my silent house, lonesome, barren and old.
I traverse up the hills, to the crux of the mound.
With the tree’s greenest of leaves shadowing the ground.
I watch the branches sway, with gentle idleness.
The sturdy bark of the tree stands crooked and timeless.
I place the marigold to the feet of my love,
When a gentle whisper calls out to me from above.
The leaves rustle, fervent, a cacophony of sound
The memories of bliss come rushing around.
I once sat under this tree, with my love by my side,
We ate lunch and knitted, or at least he had tried.
He snipped the yarn short, too small to be used.
“The yarn’s better this way,” he told me, amused.
The flower sits still, by the ground of the tree.
The only one to see this beautiful flower is me.
I yearn for his company, mourn for his choice,
Our place by the tree where I last heard his voice.
I come here to sit, to think and to grieve.
A part of me still wonders and wants to believe,
That if I was a better woman to the man that I love,
Then maybe he wouldn’t have brought his soul above.