by George Bishop
I don’t remember
promising anything,
I always knew I couldn’t
and I was sure she wouldn’t.
But it was too late. Certain
things had been paid.
Years later,
when we became friends,
we road bikes along a back
road until we came to a rest
stop near a lake. There was
a thick wall of ferns that
kept us away from the bank
and just offshore an island
someone must’ve had
a name for once.
I could tell
we both wanted
to talk about it,
the island. But
there was a huge tree
blown over by a storm,
its roots shooting out
of the bottom of the trunk
and down into the earth.
We smiled at the small,
green leaves that sprouted
at the top but secretly
it was the roots that amazed
us. I know we were racing back
to our separate homes
but never said so.
Instead, we remarked about
the wind, how it was with us
all the way before turning
down different streets.
We even might’ve tried
promising to do it again.
But no one heard us.