Greenhouse

I met you amid the branches of an old, evergreen tree – we were wary at first, dangling like flushed and obscure fruits from twisted limbs; exchanging precious gifts of blue-black berries and tentative smiles until we gained the other's trust. We clambered ever higher, full of that clumsy grace that comes with youth and the thrill of a secret shared. From atop the highest branch we surveyed the kingdom we had conquered, and swore to rule with fairness this world of wood and wind. Palms were scratched and roughened where they lay, clasped together, and the sunlight left dappled laughter lines upon our upturned faces. Our subjects were the fickle white-eyes, darting overhead like leaves given flight, chattering charming nonsense in our lordly ears. Somewhere, adults laughed, but we could not see them, so we listened instead to the bees who brought us tales of lands afar, and our own laughter was lost amidst the rustling of the leaves. We wore crowns of purple flowers in hair still wild and uncut, and I showed you how to swing with no hands from each lichen-covered limb. Later, we crouched hidden among the roots of all we owned, and listened as discarded names grew closer on the breeze. There was a brush – clumsy, but not unwelcome – of lips on dimpled cheek, and the promise we would meet a day, a week, a year from then, amid the branches of an old, evergreen tree.