Why again news, no more news
of divorce. I hadn’t heard of these two,
hadn’t dreamed they’d divorce.
A tree sways in the wind, but doesn’t
do as trees normally do, it cracks
like a painting
into pieces.
Why was there no woman of tears
and soft hands to go to this tree,
and massage it before it died?
Trucks will head home for the
holidays, and wreaths will have
arrived to adorn doors
and spin like the sun at Fatima.
For those who would pass through
the hoop and the door, the tree awaits,
hoisting its star, a princely, tinsely
medal for the savior.
A question-mark of flowers
circles the tree.
The gardener could not
help but ask.
Utrecht Journal 