So the other day I found my way to the tree where we
once used to be happy.
I pressed my skin against the grain and felt the tree push back in vain
because what lives inside it can't push clear
and I can't get to it either.
My hair got caught in the drifting vines and my skin got lost in the
browning pines and I scraped the bark with my scratchy nails
and felt the tree shudder and quail.
I guess there's still life where we used to live, if unhappy.