the woman who lived amongst roots
branches turn to autumn
run away from the summer
into the arms of her lover
glasses empty in her eaves
memories wither to nothing
party games and lovers
fall like the pink blossom
in an orchard grove
fruit ripened and gone
root bound in her attic
her trees run dry
turn to gutter tide
she tends all with cellophane
weeping torn tree hearts
each part reaching for winter.
