I wonder if love made the yesterday,
grew old or slowly died upon the tree. *
lovers united by carvings, padlocks, ink
forged onto tree, bridge, skin
confront ravages of time,
aged bark can ignite
in a moment of negligence
abundant locks can stress
an ancient bridge
abandoned ink can bleed like
a circumcised heart
arrows can dull in the
stillness of flight
I wonder if love felled in forest,
lay lifeless or swiftly resurrected upon the memory?
*Billy C. Clark, “Something There is About a Beech,” (last sentence) To Leave my Heart at Catlettsburg, Jesse Stuart Foundation, 1999, p. 19.