I gently collected his body,
turning him, nuturing him,
upon my leaves. (And he did leave,)

to flee this summer's bed
which undressed its canopy,
tempering the eaves
of this delicate coverlet.

A tiny rain-drip, dips the sepals,
unfurling the brush
on his hesitant leaf-curl--
and still, steadily,
each portal continues to fill,
fill, then fold.

Morning steam,
he is now only a whisper of condensation
upon my legs,
but I,
I can see past the dew.

A blush, hush,
quietly ascends upon my bower,
as he has clustered,
expanded my blood for far too long.

Am I but his parasol,
his greedy shade,
a lone vigilante
enduring the harshest of winters?

I insist he partake of these fruits,
for they have emerged
from the womb of my branches,
a gift, a vow, to he,
who used to feel like home to me.

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