Her:

at the edge of the wood stands an iron tree,
planted from the rooted shaving of memory
rusting.
skin oxidized from a lack of use, passion red
cracking.

tossed in anger to flower the bitter cold,
drawing white snow at its feet into light
steady, slow.

did you always already know?

at the edge of the wood stands an iron tree,
waiting in the rooted shaving of memory
for me to come home.

Him: