Moon Trees.

The scent of magnolias
with their clean fresh beauty.
Now almost fallen
trodden to earth – face down left dying.

A child’s unwavering conviction
suspended from the wishing tree.
See how it swings expectantly; longing
to be cut free.

How to remain human on such a day.
Cry down deep, such innocence
into the mistrust of human life.

If I were not me, I would push
back those years –
I’d press
my face, flat against the glass
no turn of head no show of pardon.

Let the moon go wash its lonely face:
an indistinct eclipse; left shadow less
in all its misunderstanding.

 

Poppy ~xx~
April 18th 2015

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