After Tricia's Poem

Untitled

Stumpy evergreens
sag, their top branches
listing to one side with
the weight of the rain.

After Tricia's Poem

It'll grow tall,
he always told them
as they leaned their cherry faces
over emeral bushes.
Mitted hands and flowered rain boots
kick at puddles, brush the boughs.
It won't grow,
he knows it's true.

It'll put a dent in your ceiling,
he always crossed his heart with rippped gloves
as they tilted their necks
only to find the cone-needle backside.
Dwarf earmuffs are shoved into an onyx purse,
as mittens find something sweet.
It won't even hold lights,
he knows this.

It'll enchant your dreams,
it'll make every wish come true,
it'll die, once placed in water.

And here I am,
in his lot after years
of hating his trees.
Snapping my coat to the last button,
my flowered rain boots
hit the first puddle before
the car door can shut.