by Amanda McLeod
The Tree on Sunnyvale-Saratoga Road
Crown palms look down on aging apartment blocks.
A single dusty pine fronts a run-down strip mall.
Driving past, late, rushing, my eye sights
a ghost-colored tree by the side of the road,
its bark on the ground in peels of orange grey,
its branches holding up a bluegreen crown.
Bluegum Eucalyptus, native to Australia.
California-savior-turned-scourge. Burns too fast
in fire, experts said. I slow, stung by memory:
a similar presence near our first rental, its height,
how it held each leaf like a mother, the way I wept
when it was cut down for growing too well.
We made our own tiny forest those first California years,
my family and I, sending tender green offshoots
towards everyone we met. We’re wiser now,
colder, as if it was always winter and our leaves,
our red and our gold long gone.
Hilary King is a poet originally from Virginia and now living in the San Francisco Bay Area of California. Her poems have appeared in Salamander, TAB, Door Is a Jar, and other publications. She is the author of the book of poems, The Maid’s Car and is currently studying for her MFA degree at San Jose State University.
Amanda McLeod is a writer, artist, and self-proclaimed tree loving hippie from Canberra. Her work has appeared in many places both in print and online, most recently in The Big Issue Fiction Edition, Green House Literary and Meniscus Literary Journal. She’s usually outside. Find out more at amandamcleodwrites.com.