Where Trees Grow

I.
behind a tiny house
stood a small grove
of giant pines.

they soared above her
as she ran past them
bare-foot, limbs flailing
behind her - toes tunneling
in the cool earth, running,
always running to escape
the giant that towered
over her.

II.
in the kitchen he would
rage at her with his fists,
her adult frame crumpling
beside the wall, ceramic
wind-chimes shattering;
I would fall on sapling knees,
tiny limbs twisted in dread,
watch as bruises unfurled
like pine cones on her skin.

III.
it was his favorite and she
had to look her best for him.

the dress was tiered taffeta
and velvet - a deep
hunter green that whispered
a forest of pines as she ran.

IV.
I stood underneath the boughs,
still and cold,
rooted to the earth,
smearing fat, wet tears on the dress
he tore during his ravage;
tiny seven-year old hands
weeping with sap.

the same hands that, afterward,
stroked her beaten face,
still and cold. I
had forgotten how
beautiful she was.

V.
the house was vacant and
he had been gone for many years,
but mother and daughter would
return to the grove, walk
under the giant pines,
shed tears like seeds and
wonder where trees grow.