The Sound of Fallen Fruit

If I said it softly enough,
                                                would the story be in your voice?
Silence chattered by the window with a memory,
Of a woman
                                   who lived within a tree.       She had a bark heart
And arms that reached with strange yields.
                               A figure of figs and a pretty peach,
                               The fruits of all she had to give.

                Wind touches the glass with a tap,
                                                                                    whipped round the trunk
                Of a tree with no branches,
                                                                                     but two eyes in their stead.
Unblinking, almost seeing; the stalls,               street,      vendor calls,
Those tethered by odd flotsam at their feet.

You ask in my voice,
                                                if she turned to stone,
                                                                                                  a lighthouse in
Midday desert, a pillar of salt in a tide of ruins?

Hush m,dear, hush.
A rhyme of roots whisper a chorus

Below us.            The footstep, the shovel, the rumbling bowelled
                               Sentiment. Pattered rainfall, scuttles and slow crawls,
                               Down further down, among the worm-coiled cud of a
                               Feeling. Dug in where branches and eyes are forgot,
                                                       And where roots give all that they have not got.