Trees of New England

A rare sight:
a lost parrot took flight from a maple.
It reminded me of you,
but you were dying, not flying.
I only got mixed up.
A lot, back then: my cares would make
the night stall, leaves turned
to words that couldn’t be heard
over the wind. I stared
at those trees so much I thought
they’d burn and the fire
would spread to all the trees
of New England. No more
blue sky or rare birds. The whole season
would be cancelled.
I stared at a brochure
and contemplated no more
brilliant reds. A shame,
and you kept dying all fall
until there was no more color to see,
the air unwound,
and we returned home to Long Island
to be with no more you.


Mary Christine Delea is originally from Long Island, New York and has lived all over the country. She is a recovering academic who is currently a stay-at-home writer and quilter in a Portland suburb. Her poems have been published in one full-length collection, The Skeleton Holding Up the Sky (Main Street Rag Press), two chapbooks, numerous anthologies, and many print and on-line journals. Upcoming and recent publications include Zone 3, New Ohio Review, New Mexico Poetry Review, and Mid-American Review.

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