I remember the dogwoods in our backyard
Gnarled, twisted things that, in the dark, could be
Easily mistaken for monsters
The flowers smelled like a honey-day, and meant
Spring was here, even more than the robins in
March who left tiny prints in last snows
They were little, struggling trees, and I jungle-gymmed
Without care, snapping tiny, hopeful arms
As I caroused, inflicting wounds on wood
They're gone now, and I wonder if I ever
Made them cry |