The Tree

Peeking through my porch window,
oak dressed in blackbirds and burl,
roots blanketed by plain brown
leaves dropped as gutter afterthoughts
to be raked, carted away
from your emergent skeleton,
nut-hoards pocketing the creak
of your arthritic limbs.

Your corrugated waist
shows signs of rust and city soot,
workhorse-thick. Your branches
notch for the power lines and fall
gangly, asymmetric. Next to the maples’
bursts of flame, you aren’t worth
a second word. Odes would puddle
at your feet, a silk dress six sizes too small.

I will not pin symmetry to you
like grudged cufflinks slipped
through neat linen sleeves
pulled taut for show and safety
against stains.

To the insults of a thousand
thankless blackbirds, you grow
of your own, naked of ornament.

To call you merely beautiful
would leave us both sadder,
reminded of the ways
we fail to be seen.

Lea C. Deschenes resides in Worcester, MA and holds an MFA in Poetry from New England College. Her poetry has appeared online, on stage and in print (Spillway, Snakeskin, So Luminous the Wildflowers, Ballard Street Poetry Journal, et al.). A former member of four National Poetry Slam teams and a coach to two more, she also dusts off her BA in Theater to perform. She has received a Jacob Knight Award, been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and represented Worcester in the 2005 Individual World Poetry Slam. She is the author of thirteen chapbooks. Her first full-length collection The Constant Velocity of Trains is available through Write Bloody Publishing.