Winter came and death stole her shapely form

She was just wooden bones; I mourned. 

We separated; love-torn,

We could no longer be together

Did I have a hand in her death? 

I had created steps with nails large enough

to crucify any unwanted messiahs.

That previous summer I had sat with her, high then still higher

looking down upon the world far below that held nothing for me

except for the pretty girl who lived next door, 

to whom I was unnoticeable.

Up there entwined in her foliage, she kept me safe

I peered at the stars from a vantage point closer to heaven

when my small telescope afforded a view of somewhere to go,

not somewhere I’d already been

I didn’t want to go back to where I had already been

She showed me the picture across the rooftops,

above the houses, as well as the far-off factories 

that blighted the landscape

I had to leave. 

Those factories would handcuff my near and far future.

In my mind, 

I was already well away before I had set off

She was the platform from which my life jumped

And in my red cape and outstretched arm, 

I flew many miles and many years.

The following spring her shapeliness returned 

But I didn’t