When I was
seventeen
I was old–
a girl in a window
about to be brought
and sold by grief.

The tree across
the street
knew my name
and called
it every night
to comfort me–
a murmuring refrain
of leaf on leaf.

I asked it questions,
will I be happy,
will I find love,
will I survive,
until it could
not answer–
so overwhelmed
it ceased to sing
and stood silent.

My only friend,
that tree, stopped
singing to me
because it could
not bear my sadness;
and in the fall it fell,
yellow, gold and red,
it bent its head
and wept us both
into a living death.