Offspring

Trees wave palms low.
They sweep across my path.
They pretend plumes of
reverence

for the king in me
that’s passed.

But I know you, greenleaves,
your arched innocence,
that trembling branch
that begs so coy,
a shrewdness in your glance.

You bow now, to tempt the age old
question’s whisper
in every tree that Springs caress:

marry, marry me? Your necks are
swaying with a breeze
that fingers bobbing hair,
lacing longings
as a man, a woman knit
to eager need.

But I’m no fool this year,
not this time, trees,
your feet lodged, grounded,
locked to heartless tombs.

Trees, I know you would root me,
crowd me with the gatherings of your mobs,
your leaves and leaves of tremors,
teasing hands that wait in me,
praying for
release.