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.