young sycamore leans out
over the young rivers bank.
In the smooth and slim grey trunk,
some years back, a heart was cut.
Its waist has thickened
and the letters lost their edge.
Its impossible to judge
if R or B loved M or N.
Now new leaves are
and the woods shake off their sleep,
the shot-through heart they scored deep
widened each spring with the tree.
Whether they do as
when they gave the bark this knot,
and the day still held its heat
while days and the river slid,
and whether Miss
A or H
became Mrs O or D,
or another name, or three,
or twelve were later cherished,
we only hopingly
where waters kind word is said,
on, always, over its bed,
its gentle, unending yes.
to the present