BLOSSOM

BLOSSOM, by Deborah Davitt

Dozing in leaf-dappled shade, I heard him

whispering love, and, dreaming, I promised

myself to my unseen lover. Then leaves

drifted to caress me as I slumbered.

His hands were bark-rough, and my hands slid low,

finding what was already hard as wood;

arms knotted as oak boughs lifted me up

onto him, and he pierced me to the root.

Swaying, dizzy as if high above ground,

I rocked on him, feeling him rock back to me,

till a spurt of sweet resin, sticky sap,

and I awoke, cradled by his branches.

Thinking it was still some uncanny dream,

I returned to the tree’s shade, but dared not

sleep, till summer’s heat forced me to a drowse.

Then he returned, this time just to hold me.

In fall, his leaf-hair changed color and fell,

leaving him bald and aged; I begged him not

to sleep, or, at least let me sleep with him.

But winter was his time to drowse, in turn.

And I await his awakening, not

having known that with the coming of spring,

I would bloom alongside him, and yield fruit.

 

________________________________________

Deborah L. Davitt was raised in Reno, Nevada, but received her MA in English from Penn State.  Her poetry has received Rhysling and Pushcart nominations; her short fiction has earned a finalist showing for the Jim Baen Adventure Fantasy Award (2018) and has appeared in InterGalactic Medicine Show,  Compelling Science Fiction, and Galaxy’s Edge. She currently lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. For more about her work, including her Edda-Earth novels, please see www.edda-earth.com.