What I remember most 
about your bedroom was
the view through one of
the two windows that looked

out onto a red maple. When
we first met, I would watch
the leaves on that tree change 
slowly from their gay summer green

to an autumn maroon, as we lay, naked, 
untangled, on weekend afternoons, 
divorced, each with a daughter, knowing 
even then we had no future together,

you with your horses, boots, and 
line dancing, me with my East Coast 
education and trench coat draped 
over my arm. I never said it would

work, never dreamt of still owning
each other in the spring, when the tree 
outside your bedroom window in that 
trailer park up north began to drip

with snowmelt, the blossoms 
appearing, to me, for the first time, 
the noose of time being lifted from 
around my neck, the thick ice in

Horsetooth Reservoir breaking up, 
cracking in the warmth of the March 
sun, while the last galaxies of 
tenderness were shared between us.