Ted Powers
What Kicks Dirt on the Branch


Winter is endorsing its stupid candidacy, I'm wearing
my big coat. The destruction has mainly taken place
down the small path. We sip tea that gets cold fast
and our cups scrape against their saucers. It was Ron's
idea to have tea outside, and where is Ron now? Now
I am walking in the woods with Gerald who I have only
just met and who does not know I am hoping the world
begins to resemble drawings all over again. The trees
are losing, per usual, their bark defecting with the
leaves, so that when I reach out to a low handshake
of a branch I am bitter about being denied. Something
in the vein of denial. Twigs measure my palm, looking
stupidly into the unspoken. 
                                       Trees cannot surrender.

They are at war with the olive.