A long and curved branch,
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With splintered tip, lies on beige
Concrete. Snapped and broken from
Its blooming white tree, it arcs toward
Grass heavy with shadow. Bark sheds from
The burn of red afternoon, as water escapes,
And the bend becomes a little more bent.
As it lies abandoned on warm concrete, I wonder if the person
Who ripped this limb on whim turned to see the snap,
Or just heard as it cracked.
Did that person see the gray-brown curve, knobs of new growth
Or speckled skin? Would I have even, if not for their hand?
I think the curve is smiling at me, wicked and sharp,
Like the contour of a scimitar, like the grin
Of a secret between two. Does it smile,
Even cracked and dead, because
It will still live, aptly twisted
In the voice of memory?