We stare at the pine tree in our yard,
its height and breadth,
from Christmas years ago,
hung ornaments of love and hope.
They say summer is passing,
so we have it trimmed and shaped,
as if we cannot brave the lost, the never to be,
our time shaved down so close.
The cicadas' sound eases the afternoons,
the white noise machine soothes into sleep,
we remember the smell of the sweet sap,
how it stuck to our fingers, close to each other.