Ruth Mischler

Broken Promises

over there on the incline
the hemlocks standing tall
in their dark rugged beauty
branches outstretched
like arms of a preacher

they, you said, were to be
my kitchen cupboards

or maybe the pines over here
their flimsy needles shading
an abandoned wagon
loaded with layers of leaves
ferns curling through rusty holes

tangled memories trail
the sighs of relief
from trees all around
having escaped your saw
held your noose instead

echo of a hawk’s cry lingers
in my kitchen cupboards

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