To Ask For An Apology

We skinned our knees
Proclaiming them to be proof
That life can sprout
From an open wound,
It was assumed that a tree would grow,
A beautiful oak
From each leg,
Birds would nest
In between branches
And squirrels would dance
Amongst the opulent rippling
Of leaves in the wind,
Instead of carving initials
Into picnic tables
Or wherever the surface
Could be engraved
There would be trees
And eventually a forest,
Gathering rings like kleptomaniacs,
To age and acquire distance
These knees would heal,
So the infant seed disappears
And the rest of the body
Is slowly annexed
First with wildflowers
Then soon saplings,
Sitting on your front porch,
Old growth,
Scraping wrists against stair steps,
Remember when
We were just
And only,


Author: Montana Svoboda

I'm a genderless poet currently living in Central Michigan where I attend college for Environmental Science and English. Nature's some cool shit, frisbee's a neat activity, fountain pens are best pens, Latakia for life, coffee and tea keep these gears turning.

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