The Jar Trees

And then—I came upon the jar trees.

The cut off limbs and stuck on glass.

A colourful spectrum,

About the surface area of the woodened space.

I remembered our joke.

That I’d grow you a jar and pick it from the tree for you.

You said you’d declare me—

Goddess of the jar trees.

You’d praise my name,

Stay with me forever.

Praising—ever praising.

And I was going to do it.

I was going to grow that jar for you.

I was going to grow it and paint it,

Using hieroglyphics to be studied,

Interpretations of the now ancient us.

Putting one hundred or so notes of love inside.

For you to pull them out,

For you to know—

Know of my love,

My love for you.

I touched the bark of the tree and thought of her.

A morbid thought of life and death.

How the tree is dead, and so is she.

At this thought I walked on

To the garden.

The one where my sister and I planted the azaleas,

A light pink one and a vibrant one too.

Dug a hole and nurtured them there,

In her memory.

They were beautiful just as she.

But one of them died.

The other barely made it through the winter.

Bare limbs and withered once lively blooms.

It came out alive—okay.

Even so, it followed the other—eventually, it too died.

My sister’s and then mine.

Thinking of death, I walked to where we buried Baby.

A dog we had at daddy’s when I was twelve.

I asked where she was.

“She’s dead,” my sister said.

I didn’t believe her.

But when I knew it was so,

I wrote a letter.

Telling her that I love her.

That I’d miss her.

That I was sorry for getting mad when she gave me a scar

On my left arm.

I told her that I was glad she gave it to me.

This way, she’d always be with me.

I buried this by her.

After this,

I went to the carport.

Where we sat, the day you met my dad.

I threw a baseball to my dog,

Forgot there was a roof


And we laughed.

But mostly,

This is where we noticed together,

The jar trees.

My dad pointed and showed us.

I thought it silly,

In a cute way.

But you said, “No.”

“It’s expression.”

And you’re right, it is.

But so is this.

You never cared for mine,

Did you?

I think that’s okay though because I have better all within me.

Though you left before I could give you yours,

I have better jars to give.

Better notes and letters to write.

Better beauty to create and nurture and grow.

I have better things and people worth missing.

This poem is about: 
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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