an oak tree

the winds
run out of breath late
in the day
as the sun
fades
under the bloom of grey.
the green of spring
has erupted.
the earth cools
the sleeve
of stream behind your
view, less silver
without the sun.
you'll take
the concrete steps
down and see the tree that
still holds
the carving
of your knife.
the math of your love
and hers
etched
and dated so
many years ago. it's
what you
do on easter day,
though she rises less
with each passing year.