That gypsy stared intently at her
ancient tree of life
and wondered in her reverie how
the smallest branch
had managed so effectively to
infiltrate and weave itself
into the fabric of her soul to
make of the scattered parts
one all inclusive whole.
And then she thought of your tree
and the cut and prune
that left a gaping hole that
never bled but cried
the tears of one who knew that human ignorance
had cut it down before its time
and left it so to rot
in a barren field of total isolation.
Not as intense as then but she
still can feel today
the branch’s pain and agony, the
disappointment and heartache
and most of all the sadness at
being cut adrift
from the foundation of what was
meant to be.
And so the story goes; no one
needs to know
if the branch of love grew or not
when transitory pleasure
wears the crown of ruler over the
human race
and dispenses rewards to what can
be perceived
as the completely undeserving.
But such a gift is free will that
surely there can’t be
reprisals or punishment for
deciding not to love
and she wonders in her reverie if
it even matters
when all is said and done and all
the trees have died.
However, in that silent space
between each heartbeat, breath,
there’s a deep abiding knowing
that in the fullness of all time
what was allowed to grow will
enlarge, expand and spread
to shade the future path of one
who way back then
decided of her own free will to fall
in love with you!
Helen / 28 February 2016