Sprouting

The tree was not quite barren but
Just leaves and branches,
Even at the turn of spring,
Was it only green,
And nothing more.

The bed was not quite barren but
Just sheets and hands
Creeping dents into the fabric.
A pulse on her body
And nothing more.

I have been a lucky man
Graced with many sights
To behold and hold
And call my own
If I were to ever want to.

And want to, I did.

I got to see the beauty that was
Her damp-kissed skin
Deepening the fabric
Her body writhing beneath mine own
Her coming down in breathless.

I got to feel the warmth
Of her face tucked gently
Beneath my arm
Hands on my stomach
Smile on her face.

I got to hear the wind
Shake that youthful tree
Groan through its branches
Rain-dripping leaves pattering
On the new ripe colors they shared.

I got to see the tilt of her mouth
The tug of her sleeve
The downcast eyes
Hands on her stomach
Sorrow on her face.

I didn't have a say, in truth
And if I did, what I would have said
Would not have been the same
As what she said.
That, I know

But through the budding wind,
My voice is small.
The rain cannot speak
For the tree or the leaves.
Only for the rain.

But the rain may fingertip the leaves
After autumn has its reign
And colors recede back monochromatics.
The wind may be here
To tell her that she is allowed to take a breath.

No one will tell her otherwise.

Not even me.