The First Tear

Who wouldn’t want to live forever,
flesh young and supple, regret an
unknown country?

Paradise just beyond the gate,
we dress in our best finery
for the welcoming ceremony
awaiting us.

But sorrow darkens the bare limbs
of that tree we can’t forget, and no
apple glows red on the sodden
ground where only the innocent
ferns flourish.

Loss casts a long shadow where
the beloved sits, her spine echoing
the leaning trunk, her hair a black
waterfall.

And the groom, already on his way
to becoming tree, purses his rosebud
mouth, a bud that will never bloom,
while the first tear stains his cheek.