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 draws and writes in Ontario, Canada. Her work is in or forthcoming in Stanchion, Weird Lit, Club Plum, Underbelly Press, coalitionworks, and Certain Age.
Credit: Originally published in Briefly Zine in March 2022.
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