Patricia’s Poetry and Fiction


She went to the tree, alone
everyday, alone. To be there.
its branches splitting light
into so many pieces, so many
more pieces than she could
count, if she could count.
And were there not seasons
there, too? Did the leaves not
turn red and yellow, fall
to the ground and was there
not a bed of leaves, a deep
soft humus of leaves
smelling like she
imagined god smelled
like herself where her
two strong legs came

Did it frighten her when
that sound came out
of her mouth, when she knew
she had a mouth
or did she laugh and run
naming every flower
every butterfly and bird
until she stood in front
of him and called him by name?
What passed over his face
she had a name for,
she meant to give to the
kind of night that is filled
with clouds.

She had named everything
while he slept, everything
and nothing was left
but his fear
to name and his desire
for a bed of leaves and
the smell of god.

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