Tell God

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Tell God
The house is serene;
cigarette smoke dances over my head,
over the hole-riddled, burnt, yellowed tablecloth.
My eyes drift up to see
the tiniest spider crawling the walls,
exploring all the crevices in this house
old as stone.


Outside, the porch lies in patchy sunshine.
I tiptoe out
to where the trains
roar their industrial songs,
and the birds chirp in harmony –
a melodic tune.


I run past to the peach tree,
past the sycamores and elms,
over the garden thriving with rosebuds
with their sweet perfume dusting the yard.


At last, I find my tree.
Hugging its bark like an old friend,
as though it could love me back,
I scale it all the way to its top branches,
the ones that could almost caress the sky.
I put my lips to the tree.
“Little tree,”
I whisper,
“Tell God that I love my grandmother.
Let her stay here and love me a long, long time.
I love her.”
The tree cries with me.





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