Tree of Thorns

Here there is a tree of thorns
and it has woven itself doors
and spread its canopy wide
like the mantle of an aroused lizard
and it has become a wall
this tree that made itself a door,
a wall of thorns.
But I see you
weeping iron tears that fall like blood
like small tokens.
like every futile thing born of grief
they disappear.
But then, imagine my surprise
when I see flowers bloom in every place
a tear has dropped.
And so I know that they were not futile, they did not dissappear
really.
They watered that which needed them
and now I see you gathering blossoms
in the deep pocket you make of the skirt of your dress.
You wear them in garlands, these flowers, around your neck, wrists, and ankles. You
display them in your hair.
I wait
with bated breath to see
what you will do with them
beneath the watching moon. — Annette Marie Smith