We bedded it in the unkind earth
(her rough hands mottled with dirt)
and waited on the screened porch
for the rain. The summer ripened
like a black fruit in the streets;
the clouds’ sad aspect
witched lilies from the mulch.
Our tree tried out from his plot,
a child’s needful arm.
But I grew restless, like a criminal
in a ballad, and one night
axed the sapling in the acrid lawn
while she rolled moonward
in her sleep: its unready timber,
my bare feet slipping in the grass,
its resisting viscid green.