For Kris
When we were young,
you made me promise
I’d outlive you.
Now, my hands,
gnarled like this tree,
tremble as I carve
our names into its bark.
We planted this tree,
and watched each year
as Spring blossoms
drifted away
like snowflakes.
Though we mourned their loss,
there was something special
in those fleeting moments
when hapless winds
lifted off its petals.
If only we could’ve preserved those visions
like the tart jam we enjoyed
months after harvest.
But I digress . . .
Though I never would’ve broken it,
there are many days
I wish I hadn’t made that promise.
And, while I hope to join you soon,
the richest part of me
has already passed on.
Please come soon, love –
The blossoms are almost gone.
© 2011 by Brad P. Olson. All Rights Reserved.