In spring, when the trees aren’t hungry and naked, he’ll return to the park bench. Hardwoods fallen on hard times, birches silver, but penniless. He gets it. He’s there too. So no point in twig fingers, bending low under the weight of snow, tapping his shoulder for help. He’ll wait until the trees have been fed by April, clothed by May. After all, he isn’t their keeper. He has his own troubles, and, damn it, no one cares about those. Certainly not trees in winter.
Karen Walker writes in a basement. Her work is in or is forthcoming in Bandit Fiction, Defenestration, Virtual Zine, Reflex Fiction, Potato Soup Journal, Roi Fainéant Literary Press, Versification, Sledgehammer Lit, and others. Twitter (@MeKawalker883).