Bare Trees

I notice the bare trees, the oldest ones, lean sideways; so the wind, the constant winter gale that dries the softness from our lips, must blow from the southwest.  I turn to share this with you, but you are gone.

And who is this?  Some girl in skinny jeans and a grey knit cap listens raptly to your animated speech, her hair whirling in the wind.  I see your face in profile, your steady warm eyes and smile communicating more than your words do.  Waves of lightness and tension race through me.

My hands shoved in my pockets, my legs almost crossed, I study the faces of the people rushing by.  Girls chattering inconsequentially, sombre young men walking alone.  I create their stories in my mind, and realize I am writing to you.  You would have something different to say to each of them, I decide, because for each person you have a special story.  Flying kites on Malibu beach, a night at the sushi bar with your older cousin, brewing homemade beer.  These stories flow from you like dandelion seeds from the stalk, floating into our cupped and eager hands.  You forget these seeds, but we remember.

At last you relinquish that girl, and you are mine again.  We walk together.  It is my turn to entertain you, so I prattle on about my childhood friend who used to swing on the church gate, kicking back and forth, humming and talking about nothing.  I pretend your indulgent smile signifies deep interest.  Your eyes wander to the trees, the stark white trunks and tangled branches leaning north-west.

The wind, at least, blows constant.