Bare limbs always know the truth

He begged.

He kneeled, boughed beneath an autumn tree,

and pleaded as she turned away.

He sobbed, spilling ‘sorry’s,

‘forgive me’s, and ‘please’s.

And she,

crying, compassionate, and forgiving,

took him back.

But bare limbs always know the truth.

He says he apologized, voice rising.

Growing, commanding,

he takes root in the doorway’s empty chasm.

He said he was sorry, he barks.

He said it would never happen again.

The last leaf, clinging hopelessly

against winter’s biting death,

falls, finally, to the ground.

Too many second chances.