The trees of my childhood
are not the trees of your
childhood.
Let me tell you about my
cedars; my forsythias
and honeysuckles;
the way I used to plant
cherry pits in the front lawn
because I was greedy for their
blossoming.
Lift up my skirt and I’ll show you
where the blackberry brushes had
scratched me.
Lay me down in a hammock
hung between your childhood and the
man you have become today.
And we’ll kiss once, twice,
and a third time for luck
beneath the cherry blossom petals
that I had fallen asleep beneath
when I was too young to know anything
but innocence.
And the dark bark will be a darker midnight
against the spring it blossoms.
Skeletal. Moonless.
So heavy from the
rain.
And your hand will fold a flower
behind my ear.
The petals will be
so extraordinarily
pale.
– Shinji Moon
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