Bonsai (II)

Dost thou recall when once I spake
Of all the gravity’s silent weight,
Of complications that doth awake,
In flights of fancy that oft sedate,

When thou wouldst ne’er incline thine ear,
But like a monk, serene and still,
Admired my bonsai, so austere,
With branches wild, defying will?

Yet I took no ire nor bitter stance,
For ‘twas enough to have thee near,
And knew thou saw’st in e’ry glance,
Thy bridal gown, so white, so clear.

In twilight’s fading, dim embrace,
I showed thee proud, the river’s course,
Winding ‘tween tracks, in dark disgrace,
Through algae’s clutch and tar’s black force.

Thou gazed upon it, sorrow-filled,
Half envious, half amazed to see
The life I lived by comfort stilled,
A hermit’s dull serenity.

I’ve ne’er understood, as man unskilled,
Though I speak in words refined,
Why still my nature is unfulfilled,
In solitude, by choice confined.

Perhaps we are too far apart,
More distant than the poles themselves,
Who should be locked, both mind and heart,
In some pentagon’s secret shelf.

I’ve lost the count, the verses spent,
Drowned in tiramisu’s sweet hold,
Upon my bed, where dreams lament,
And where thy robe, blue-tinged and cold,

Still lies, a relic of our past,
Its folds unfurl with morning’s breath,
As arrows on a helm amassed,
Or whispers of a soldier’s death.

Now I wonder, dost thou think
Of me as thou roam’st far and wide,
From Spain’s warm shores to Australia’s brink,
With naught but thy bag by the side?

Where should I carve the words unsaid,
The thoughts that swirl, yet find no rest,
Words I’d scrawl in bold or thread,
In every place, at thy behest.

For ‘tis clear, beyond all doubt,
To each reader who may explore,
That though I name no place throughout,
They’d seek thee, love, forevermore.

Not for pity, nor for grace,
But out of some deep empathy,
Though thousands of verses leave no trace,
Of the name that should sing of thee.

Now my bonsai’s gone from sight,
The balcony too, has met its end,
My bank account hath taken flight,
A brief purging, I did intend.

Yet still thy smile, faintly seen,
Hangs on the edges of my mind,
Yellowed by smoke, and all between,
The twelfth wonder, thou didst find.

I trudge along, the days begin
With curses thrown at morning’s light,
Then licorice gum to mask the sin,
And nicotine’s patches in the fight.

For thou knowest well my feeble state,
Before even I did comprehend,
I love the scent of kerosene’s fate,
And bask in triumphs without end.

I dodge the talk of mighty men,
And responsibilities too great,
As birthdays pass and fade again,
And humbleness, I do abate.

Admit, at last, thou didst love me,
When I had wearied of thy grey,
Thy Parisian tights, too prim, too free,
And thy visage, spotless, in its way.

‘Twas always my fault, this I knew,
From the very start, with clear intent,
But waiting for thy arms’ warm view,
Left me broken, discontent.

Perchance thou wert too slow to move,
While I sped forth with frantic pace,
Thou at the base, thy steps to prove,
Whilst I did smoke upon the brace.

Who doth say it is a sin
To see the world from heights apart,
E’en the eclipse of the solar spin,
Appears, at times, to light the heart.

Take heed, my love, of all I erred,
Of the complexities I did present,
Though in the coffin, lessons deferred,
May serve thee not, for they are spent.

Thou didst steal, yet scorn the lore,
Like snow upon a branch’s tip,
I erred that day, and even more,
When first I spake with love’s own grip.