Our Last Weekend in Savannah by Anna Weaver and Stephen "Doc" Hutchings [text version]

Our Last Weekend in Savannah

We walked on sidewalks heaved
by roots, stepping over the cracks

with the quick feet of people
who have forgotten they should not fall

in love, and he named for me
each of the trees.

He traced the patterns in leaves
and bark, took my hand

and said, gently, that heartwood
is bad at defending itself.

He taught me the signs
that a dead limb needed to be cut

and where to set the teeth of a saw
to allow a callus to grow,

a thickening that might protect
the sound wood inside.

A wounded tree, he said,
is not able to heal.

It wants only closure.