The Smallest Tree

On our backs, on the lawn of your old house

we stared up at the trees,

a hard wind moving through them

in a violent dialogue.

The smallest tree was fluttering

uncertainly

and we wondered what it might

be whispering.

That summer,

You left

to live with horses

and raw earth.

You and your quiet heart went blossoming

among the simple symmetry

of gardens.

When you brought the french girl with you to the country

I knew inside my bones that you could not belong

to me or

anyone.

When you went to Rome, the Holy Ghost inhabited

the parts of you

that unanointed love

would never occupy again.

And I am here

in your backyard

with that small tree, still

whispering.