Tree

I buried my beating heart
In a far field, and in a fit of pique
I marked the spot with a sapling
In case I needed it again

I pictured my waiting heart
Safe in a rib-cage of roots
Under a tree whose Autumn leaves
Were two shades redder than the rest

I missed my hurting heart
And found the field to be full
Of identical self-seeded cedars
But only one tree had a heartbeat