a wooden heart

there's a tree outside my house,

tall and unwavering.

he's grown so big that the pavement

is shattered,

destroyed by silent roots hidden

beneath asphalt.

nothing ever particularly interesting

happened beneath this tree;

i didn't have my first love there,

nor did i graze the lips of death.

but every day i puff past,

lost in a world made up

of words and rhythm;

i see the scar,

his trunk branded with a heart,

surrounded by suckers.

he wears his heart on his sleeve,

faces the strongest of storms,

and in the morning,

he's always there.

as long as this tree stands,

i know i can do the same.