It’s you and me and
The tree
Its feet roll clumsily across
The floor
Our shoes scatter the fallen leaves
Like dust that finds the smallest cracks
Its limbs are bent slowly down
We have hung our dreams upon them
They dry as we lose sight of ripening
Wild plumbs and peaches
We stare vacant smiles and starve the roots
Of the tree growing in our living room
That we both deny ever was
Yet it grows ever slow
With the cobwebs in the lower
Corner of our left eye
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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Great write.. My love died 3 years ago.. but his memory is like the tree.. growing dust and dreams.. and cobwebs.
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this is weird, but i feel like it was stretched, in its abstractness, too much in too many different directions.
but i guess its just the style that you like?
anyways, gotto love the originality and creativity.
can you say potential?
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Amazing metaphors! Lovely, lovely write! Congrats on the Spotlight!
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I love the idea of having a tree in the house
I like the feel of Nature all year around...mac
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one of your best
this really intrigues me, by the rich description of the tree's specifics, weaved into your life. i like how you use physical parts as sections of the birch/maple/(?) ... it keeps the emotional imagery akin.
"Its limbs are bent slowly down
We have hung our dreams upon them" -- shows a posterity graph of life being a branch wait, and when they come true and dry, you can wear them. what's also so beautiful is the strength of the structure, to support them, which would be remaining vigor of love.
very movingly sad in the latter half, how you turn the poem raw - raking the truth of how people take care of their seedlings [even literally], and so just because the affection was watered, the state changes immediately if backed off from. "With the cobwebs in the lower Corner of our left eye" -- the contrast between how the timber didn't survive, but rather invaluable soot, unconceals the abandoning. and "left eye" represents when someone stares into you in an irritating way.
that kind of poetry impresses me; spotlighted;
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Cleverness that deserves to gain prominence at Poetry Planet, so I am tucking it away in my pocket and carrying it there this night.
On Monday morning people who visit The Planet will have something very special to read and talk about over breakfast. 
Thank you. 
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not on computer screen but as cinema for purest rating
I looked at this not logged in yet, to quietly rerelate it to myself and not tally that with notes etcetera... so when amassing only notices for you here, when I was signing in guess who's name went in that box like for comment right away
but that's how this poem moves waiting too long almost, with "Our shoes scatter the fallen leaves
Like dust that finds the smallest cracks" not smallest joys gained. and the projectory of droop is profound compared with drupe or a period towards, but dappled in lieu to the ending.
the title could make one have a lip slip of the tongue to October fest; so it saddens me more on that trip back to autumnal matrix to find footwear probably not for polka through maples, or other kicks energetically with who might be fittingly someone's my melody of love but wrinkling tune it seems to join by.
but it's not glib gllee that this had its setting for wild growths as natural for tambourine rustle, but we package in home and miss it somewhat. until not askance for watering mouth fountain of youth to mirth not for months, but straight to fruitage that gears up everything from ground up per se
I hope I don't just need a modern sense of joy, but I want to spotlight this specialty ~
carolyn
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a very nostalgic feel to this
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