This is a story about two trees.
Wrist deep and knuckling under
we sunk our hands in a bucket of swampy water and
we untangled bonsai roots together
sorted them out like schoolchildren
to plant them side by side
cheek to symbiotic cheek in a purple pot
I named them Barthes and Frye, but
it never mattered what I named them
With plants I feel so huge and American
and to me you feel like the East
Me, all for growth and and more greenery
sprays of leaves and vines and sprawling sunshine
a house rich with oxygen
with noisy wind in the window drapes
Meanwhile I marvelled
at what beautiful hands you have
so careful and so quick to pinch
to prune the excess to feel
the heat of a teacup without a handle
When your plum tree blossomed it was
tiny and explosive at once
like a snow globe only color and scent
the whole of spring’s season microcondensed
the great broad world in miniature
For a while the kitchen was full of light
and Barthes and Frye grew
taller and further but closer and closer
together until their root system
was the same, and they were healthy
while they greenly braved the winter
February I felt the soil and the soil was dry
and you told me I was killing them with water
The rot was shallow at first
I scraped the trunk clean with a butterknife
I soaked the thirsty roots
I did everything I knew how to do and yet
when the knife caught the bark
still and naked shock struck me cold
trunk to tip, one tree gone to rot
so slowly and so fast
tiny and explosive at once
A thing is so much lighter dead than living
and when I lifted the leafless shell of its trunk
from the soil it was weightless
and did not cling or tangle
and I did not think to call it Barthes
and I never thought to blame Frye
I know now not to blame the earth
or the two people who planted the trees
together; when together, they were beautiful
and we planted them with hearts
large with only love
for beautiful things
in a broken and blameless world