Like the precursor
to a best-selling
teen dystopian novel series
with half-heartedly-made
cash cow movies,
the cherry tree in our front yard
has failed to blossom
for the first time
in twenty-six years.
We do not buy
into symbolism,
yet trees being
the lungs of the earth
those that still stand tall at the capitol
boughs branching out
embracing
amid further political unrest
pushing back
against barricades
for certain unalienable rights
each ones’ ideas
of freedom
under banners
such are false flags
and comes at the cost
of choking on the pollen
that is tear gas
as flowers fall
gracefully
like defeat.
But home
is where the heart is
(no insurrection here
though unsure as to what this lack of affectation means)
while our love
written in lines of
poetry, stories
carved into the skin
M.L.M.
+
G.R.H.
like tattoos
bleeding that sap
sticky, sweet lifeblood
still pumping
rings
true
for you, our children
rings
chronicling the years
the orbit around the sun
rings
around the rosie
ashes
take upon new meaning
as we hold onto life
neverending.