As the broad palms of the horse chestnut
laid claim to her whiteness, he was
touched by their reverence — summer
candles held high as if to see her better.

Heart-shaped leaves of aspen
Chinese-whispered, hissing of lovers
kissing in the grasses. The impotent ash
could only jangle last year’s keys.

Now, as bare trees vein the sky
he is taunted by evergreens which fail
to screen a watery winter sun.
And the leaf between

the pages of the book which he slid
laughing from her hands that day
floats from its chapter, a brittle ghost.
And what once danced is stilled.