Concrete is where love has blossomed.

The soil beneath my leaves devoid of life,

full of misconception and missed connection.

Full of self-reflections and misapprehensions.


You could see the incisions left from the last woodchuck -

you asked me, “How much wood could a woodchuck

chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” And I said,

“A fucking lot.”


Where there were incisions, you pressed

your gold tinted skin and covered them up

with cocoa butter kisses. Where there was

dead soil, you put your soul within and gave it life

Where there were weak limbs, you mothered

a harness made of comfort and understanding.


Your love for me is visibly more desirable

than money that grows off trees. When spring

come, you never pick my flowers or leaves.

You continue to water and shine

your rays upon my rough rugged bark

and uncommonly find beauty.


But when that gush of wind decides to strip my branches,

no matter how hard the circumstance is - you're there. 

Raking away. Damage from the rain pretending your

happiness, when you're clearly in pain.


Couple days pass, the foundation has set for our

stepping stones, it was hard. Harder than solidifying

the foundation of trust. I know it's a must, but trust

is so hard, which is why the foundation for our stepping

stones are made of concrete. 


Although it's made of concrete and encompassing

my trunk, right around the bottom, you

found the cracks in the concrete and proved

that no matter the foundation, concrete

is where love has blossomed.