Trees

Every day 

she went to visit them.

Two trees, entwined like lovers.

The oak, rough-barked

serrated-leaved, his acorn heart

difficult to penetrate.

The beech, outwardly smooth,

tidy-leaved, heart like the bristled nut,

easily opened and split. 

On the way she would search

for a faultless ovate beech leaf

and a perfect jagged oak.

She pressed her treasure in her palms

her fingers aligned, 

until she reached the trees,

rolled the leaves up together,

put them in a dark notch

between the embracing lovers.

Then she touched the oak with her right hand,

the beech with her left,

pressed her face where they met,

felt smoothness on one cheek,

roughness on the other,

closed her eyes and prayed.

Over the years the patches 

where she put her palms and face

grew polished and worn.

When he left

she took her sharpest carving knife,

hewed through moss and bark

to reveal two broken bands

of golden naked flesh.