Today the Tree ejaculated.
A mid-afternoon quickie, no doubt –
Nothin’ else to do today.
I heard the seeds first:
Skeeting across the ground,
Happy to be free.
I looked around to find who aroused it so –
Who aroused him so –
Who brought about that climax and made him germinate
In…my…face.
“Who stimulated that Tree’s trunk?”
I looked around – and I heard her.
The North Wind lit a cigarette, inhaled, puffed out, “Was it good for you?”
The Tree’s still wheezing – trembling from her touch.
An embarrassed voyeur, I walk quickly past;
Imagine the foreplay…
“My! What stiff wood you have!”
“The better to root you with my dear,”
And they go at it; no words,
Staying warm together in the ever-chilling world.
Shuddering, her ecstasy echoes…
“Oh…Oh…Oh…!”
Oh: it was good.
You already know how that ended:
Me walking out of the office, headfirst into a mess of organic seed –
Millions of peas in pods eagerly escaping,
Planning to pollinate whatever pores they find.
I missed the good part – caught only the happy-ending –
And now there’s pollen on my shoes,
Shoes worn only because Bare-Foot season’s over now.
The season to walk and feel with the soles of your soul the warmth that was this world;
That season has ended.
Shame, shame indeed; but fret not!
For Leaf-Stomping season has now begun.
Don your sneakers and lift your foot,
Come down.
Step-crunch.
Step-crunch.
Step-
CRUNCH!
“That’s a good leaf” I say smiling,
Reveling in the innocent joy of earth-toned noises.
The noisy crushing of the tree’s seasonal shed shell.
But why? Why’ve they fallen? Why’s he losin’ it?
He’s been cheated.
Bitter from betrayal, his foliage fell, mimicking his mourning.
He accuses her when she’s back at last:
“I saw you today – in the neighbor’s yard.
Blowing their branches – don’t tell me you didn’t!
You–you–no-good–dirty–slutty–LEAF-BLOWER!”
At that, she whirls.
“Don’t you talk to me about fidelity:
I see the way you sway and swoon at the sight of the South Wind soaring down the street
And the way you eye your ex the East, envious of her new Elm,
And you wish the West Wind would wet your wood once in a while
So do not preach to me about faith.
But maybe if your twig wasn’t hanging so limp,
Maybe then I wouldn’t lust.
If you want to keep a gust with a bust like this, honey,
You’d better pray Viagra gets into the fertilizer business.
‘Mighty Oak‘ my tight ass!”
“Well maybe my limbs wouldn’t limp,
And maybe my eyes wouldn’t wander,
If you weren’t quite the Wicked Wind.
I sacrifice all I can just to please your kinky desires:
Just last week I broke my bough –
landed on some poor fool’s Ford Focus –
And all because you like it rough.
But tell me, Hurricane Harlot, what has that wilting willow got that I don’t got?”
“That PE-can has more nuts than you’ll ever have.”
It goes on and on, the pot-shots and the name-calling
Jokes about his “wimpy woodpecker”
Names like “Sleazy Breeze”
But the storm soon settles,
As the anger subsides the branches cease shaking,
And the flurry stops its fury.
Apologies and “I’m sorry”s
“I won’t do it again”
But they will.
This time next year
when the cycle’s concluded
Again;
They’ll be at it
Again;
No words,
Staying warm together in the ever-chilling world.
Again.
- Matthew Fowler
