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