Jan 122010

by George Bishop

I don’t remember

promising anything,

I always knew I couldn’t

and I was sure she wouldn’t.

But it was too late. Certain

things had been paid.

Years later,

when we became friends,

we road bikes along a back

road until we came to a rest

stop near a lake. There was

a thick wall of ferns that

kept us away from the bank

and just offshore an island

someone must’ve had

a name for once.

I could tell

we both wanted

to talk about it,

the island. But

there was a huge tree

blown over by a storm,

its roots shooting out

of the bottom of the trunk

and down into the earth.

We smiled at the small,

green leaves that sprouted

at the top but secretly

it was the roots that amazed

us. I know we were racing back

to our separate homes

but never said so.

Instead, we remarked about

the wind, how it was with us

all the way before turning

down different streets.

We even might’ve tried

promising to do it again.

But no one heard us.