I have this thing about trees, as I'm certain others do….it borders on reverence.
Gray hared woman,
the scent of my outrageous blooms
has drawn you here, hasn't it?
Or has a long past lover's tryst
awakened need to place your hands
on something more than memory?
I see you searching for the heart
you outlined with your fingers,
then watched its carving by his hand,
so deft; you couldn't know the trail
of broken hearts he'd left behind.
You will not find it now.
Like you, I'm scarred with age.
But sit, together we'll remember
gas lights lit around the garden,
soft laughter, clinks of crystal goblets,
strains of Straussian waltzes.
- E. Hujsak
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