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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