The Darkest Tree

Have you seen the children

who wait for one last leaf
to fall from the tree?

There were actually three.
Three kinders watched as I drew this tree.
They didn’t know what it would be,

‘til they took time to see.

They put down their crayons

and saw rising branches,

as each began to take their shapes.

I told those three kinders,

“This is The Darkest Tree,”

like the oak tree living outside my house.
I asked, “How does it feel to be the tree?”


“How does it feel to be the only leaf?”

I thought I could use this idea, maybe to
help with name-calling, sharing, seasons
changing, and what comes with healing.

Knowing each one will lose the other,

and the one who will lose more,

I didn’t speak out loud any further,

for this comforted me in my nurture.

I continued a talk in my mind:

The lightest thing know to gravity,
how the leaf will fall on earth;
its most silent tragedy.
Slowly, when the leaf falls, it will decay
and possibly have one more day
to move by the life of wind.
Or it becomes scooped up in a bag
amongst the rest of what was once dangling.
The tree remains cold
and waits for new season to begin
just to have more leaves again.

When you laid your full body

on me,

and we began to sleep,
I woke up to a sight of your soft hair
and forehead, your eyes closed,
with a calmest sound of you sleeping.
I wondered if you were dreaming.

For a second or two,
the moment belonged to nature.
I didn’t know how I fell asleep, but
inside our sleep and at my wake,
I was the freest.
I breathed just to breathe in;
I didn’t breathe to catch air
away from my anxiety.
I was the luckiest
for it all having found us;
only you and me.

For a second or two,
I was the lightest thing know to gravity.

We were.

But now that you are not here,

I am the tree.

Gone is our love,




a short, short story © 2016 from Art Cure: un-alone in poetry by Mario Gabriel Adame