The root is deep and strong.

The gardener’s efforts great.

He tilts his shovel, presses down and braces foot.

Still the root will not give. Dark brown, deep, it is stubborn.

It is viney and creeping, all green and yellow-orange trumpets,

A commingled honeysuckle. The one you fed me years prior; still do.

Those sacred peach-light summers, so humid and sweet.

You pinched off the end as I stuck out my tongue;

catching one drop of honeyed nectar.

How the ritual was repeated until I was sated.

Others, peered from darkened windows, witnessing this ritual.

Too close, too intimate. There was close but closer still.

A honeysuckle vine, give away sign.

It never stopped us of course.

Perhaps they saw that moment when I shared with you

singular a drop, you - my sweetened tongue sucked,

so gentle, a kiss between cousins.

Simple pleasure shared.

We stand, I tip-toed, peer from hallway window.

It is a death and no death is small.

Our youth dug-up; disgraced. Sent

to edge of property; sticks saved for kindling.

My heart burns heavy. My hearthfires burnout.

When you take my hand, the tears fall fast, large as glass.