Do you remember when

we made trees together,

I liked drawing them because

I knew where I was going next

I knew how I was meant to start:

two parallel lines with curves

on each end holding an elliptical

circle with squiggle filled lines

that’s your outline;

start filling it with different shades of green

throw in a bit of yellow, but not too much:

death should be acknowledged subtly;

move to the bark,

this wasn’t as fun

leaves will fade from

green to

yellow to

sad beige

my boots can crumple them and

with the wind, they’ll float away

for the bark

death is

slow, painful.

One day we stopped drawing

elliptical squiggle filled lines

they were replaced by leaves

that had individual outlines:

I was expected to

transition into realism

a new technique can

fill you with contempt

too many leaves make

your branches bend and

one

day

break;

that’s what happened.

I don’t draw

trees anymore

the squiggle filled ones are a lie

the outlined-leaves ones hold

truths I’m not old enough to face.

I liked drawing trees

but that was before you

turned into a beige leaf:

you crumpled and

the wind took you

away leaving behind

me, a bark with

broken

bending

branches.