Tree Lover

I was not his first love, he confessed,
on our honeymoon in Yosemite,
eyes dewy and soft, hugging  tall trees all around us
stripping down to swim in icy lakes
and run in weedy meadows.


 Montana
he whispered one night in his sleep
smiling, murmuring something and something
as though he was back with an old lover.

L.A. and  smog

Santa Ana's and traffic

five -to- seven work days
confused his senses
after a while.

He no longer called anybody's name
on windy nights.
Long cigarette's puffs managed to
silence old desires.

But he built tree houses for his children,
in a mini forest he planted in the backyard
complete with a small creek,
and a pond for turtles and frogs
and bunnies and salamanders
all the while
recreating his childhood in Montana.