Morning woods thick with fog,
black leaves slick underfoot.
Bracing my fall, the crooked
sapling bends then snaps back
upright. Pinecones like un-
wanted memories spill
onto the dead autumn ground.
Sharp needles the fingers
of the past, clawing back
ten years to a seedling
given in your memory,

and the wife and two children
left behind when you packed
your shattered brilliance into
a battered car, arrived
drunk again at my door
and found it closed to your
abuse and lies. I watched
you swerve away into the night,
broken headlights,
your desperate search
for happiness.

—Fredric Hildebrand