This is embarrassing, but maybe making a public admission could save me hundreds of hours of expensive psycho-therapy:
I have a thing going on — with a tree.
Alright, yes, I’ll be specific: It’s locust tree.
Actually, OK, not just one locust tree, ALL locust trees.
Being infatuated as I am, I could go on and on about their amazing qualities, properties, personalities.
But seeing as verse is the true form of romantic expression, I’ve decided to admit and submit my proof in poetic form.
This poem is called, bluntly enough,
Locust love
Last to leaf
Last to bloom
Locust trees fill a fortnight
With their musky, sexy perfume.
They are legumes
Pea vines gone huge
Shallow roots unrolling lush carpet
Over meager soil,
Lawn gone neon green come evening,
Rabbit heaven.
They’re mostly crooked,
But when they’re true,
No wood’s a better sill,
No post can push rot
Farther into the future.
And come winter,
No chunk will burn hotter and cleaner
In the stove.
But best of all, their white flowers,
hanging bells,
Ring out the last of spring,
And their perfect perfume,
Inhaled in a parking lot,
Ushers in summer.
So there it is, I’ve fessed up. And now I’ll have to be on my way, not just because I’m embarrassed but because I have a walk to take, and believe me, it’s a hot date.
