He gifted her a lime tree, placed it in her care.
A sorry little thing really,
leaves curled in on themselves,
half frostbitten and starved for sun.

“Make it live and we will talk about love”
he said,
and his words were made of ice.

So she placed it by a window
In a bright room filled
With the tenderness of spirit
Like an aquarian she bore it water
Until it was strong and green
Dangling citric fruits from
Every limb.

But when he saw this new life
he simply frowned and offered her a ring.
A pathetic excuse, really, tarnished black
Corroded and scratched from band to set

“Make it shine, my dear, and we shall talk again”
he said,
and his smile was battery acid.

So she wrapped it in soft cloth
And with gentle hands full of care
She scrubbed and toiled over it
Delicately buffing its imperfections
Until it gleamed bright as a true heart
Wrapped around her finger.

And when he came to see its shining visage
Anger glinted in his eyes.
In his hands he cupped a grey dove
Wings shattered at its sides

“We will speak of love again
when you teach it how to fly”

She bound and set the wings
Sutured all its wounds
Bathed the little thing in smiles
And sweet encouraging words
Until the day that finally
The bird took to wing.

But when he came to see it
He crushed it in his hand

“All my gifts you turn to gold,” he said
“and that never was the plan.
I will be stone and cold and in my grave
before we speak of love again”

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