I am sorry, mi amore Platanus;
all the trees hanging over the river
on the corner, sweet locust and sycamore
marching up the steep stream bed
to escape the rising tide.
I didn’t save you when propane tanks,
popping up like otters, played in the
river’s current.

I didn’t rescue your cousin, Acer, either
from the steel teeth and
the murder of men working there,
side by side when I was a kid and
found just a pile of dust,
an old skid steer
parked out front by the school.

I am sorry for my apologies
that no longer matter;
Don’t we both know now that
good and bad are like
two trees falling pillars
from each corner of the temple,
where we wait
as the river softens the heart
before the saw cuts it open wide.