Under The Tree

You never came to hold me under the tree that day — the first crack. I can be fine japanese china, tempered in the fire and made what i am there — but take me out — and its the cracks that make the thing — but i’m no thing,

and you never came to me,
under that tree.
Looking out over the water,
at the end of that day,
on the eve of that summer,
the dawn of fall,

the touch of your hand was all.
but you had your doorway, watching,

and i had my tree.