Bronwyn Valentine

A Tree

You came from the shade

of the porch your sons built

when you gave your yard to lilacs.

All opening, I took

from the tree,  tips of branches

in my arms, paper petals

unclasping at my elbow. 

This would be my gift.

A glass jar of water and branches

fainting over the lip.

In the water, blood

curling from the broken ends of branches,

relinquishing form

to fill space.

How could we think

to replace blood with water? 

Anyway, we did.

Some flowerheads on the floor, some flesh

loosened to dust underfoot.