Poem: “There May Always Be the Trees”

Reading my poem, "There May Always Be the Trees" first published in Bloom.

There May Always Be the Trees

Night came in early— November and a first
dusting. A cold stone wall, our dog, woods
beyond the field all becoming a mystery

at dusk. The fear of unnecessary injury
and the winding down of the clock
preoccupied me, though we didn’t need

to be anywhere. I knew you were cold
but left you to your contentment, staring
into the space where the sun had fallen.

Our dog drifted into the shadows.
We could hear her light crashing 
across the long grass of the fallow.

When headlights caught us, there
and gone, we walked back to the cabin
crunching across the gravel road.

I warmed the bisque, and you went out
to the darkness of the deck, overlooking
another forest patch, allowing us to imagine

ourselves in an idyll. I brought you 
sherry and put my arm around your
shoulders. “There will always

be trees, won’t there?” you asked. “...there
may be,” I lied. Inside, our dog whined.
We returned to candlelight and fire.

Published by Brendan McEntee

Poet and critic living in New York near Long Island Sound.

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