The trees cannot free me.

The boughs do not bend
to the sound of my voice
like the window-framed curtains that
slip out your distance.

The trunks would not shed
a sharp shape from the West
like the time when Michelle
threw her hopes on the freeway

And, sadly, the barks
never learned to look flourished
with Kraylons and edgings of
black Pentel pens
that are not really far
from the marks
on your doorstep.

But I cannot walk my way
back to your arms

for the roots hide the trails
and the branches would only
uncover the North
when the winds come unkind,

when the leaves whip unbridled by wooden old fingers
from sharing their versions of rustled sincerities
heard the first time your jeans sheltered my ear,

and, eventually,
when the gale comes in crashing
and forces my strength
to reach out and grab hold of
the nearest log
that my hand
could touch.