We had no field,
We had no stone,
No roof to keep the winter out,
No room to call our own

We had no seed,
We had no spring,
Only a dead tree on the hill
And hands with nothing to bring

They lived beyond the village lamps,
Where even beggars passed
Two lovers with a borrowed bowl,
A coat that could not last

No dowry hung upon the wall,
No bread was stored away
But on the hill above the road,
They kept a tree from gray

The villagers had left it there,
A relic, dry and thin
But she would clear the choking thorns,
And he would bind the skin

You laughed and said, “We own one thing:
This tree that gives no shade”
I said, “Then let us guard it well,
Since nothing else has stayed”

We had no orchard, no warm bed,
No cradle by the wall
But every dusk beneath those limbs,
We felt less poor than all

We watered nothing,
Nothing grew
But I had nothing
If I had not you

We planted no tomorrow,
No house, no field, no name
Yet under dead branches,
Love burned all the same

Then came the letter folded twice,
With wax the color of blood
A lord had bought his labor south,
Beyond the marsh and flood

“Three years,” they said, “or maybe more,
If sickness does not bite”
The road was long, the wage was thin,
The law was never light

You wore no veil, you wore no ring,
No flower in your hair
But all the brides of all the world
Were less a bride than there

I said, “If I return too late,
If distance eats my face,
Remember that I loved you here,
Beside this rootless place”

Then tears fell down together,
Not for death, but for the road
Two living hearts divided
By a debt they never owed

We watered nothing,
Nothing grew
But I had nothing
If I had not you

We planted no tomorrow,
No house, no field, no name
Yet under dead branches,
Love burned all the same

Nothing, nothing,
Still the root drank deep
Nothing, nothing,
Still the dead tree keeps

Some loves do not blossom
But refuse to let go

He left before the morning thawed,
She watched until he blurred
No raven brought a message,
No traveler knew his word

She kept the tree from winter rot,
She swept the roots of snow
And every night beneath its limbs,
She said his name below

“I ask no fruit, I ask no bloom,
No miracle, no sign
Only keep the shape of him
From falling out of mine”

The next spring,
the tree did not flower

It did not bear fruit
It did not ring
It did not write a name

Instead,
from every branch
grew leaves shaped like little doors

Each opened only once

And behind each one
was a voice
that could not otherwise be reached

She found the first leaf at sunset,
Half-open to the rain
And when she touched its tender frame,
She heard his voice again

Not from the road, not from the grave,
Not from the village lane
But close as breath inside her ear,
And far as foreign pain

He said, “I am not dead, my love,
But I cannot come home”
She said, “Then speak while leaves allow,
Before the green is gone”

“I kept your name from fading”
“I carried yours through dust”
“I loved you past the hunger”
“I loved you past mistrust”

“I have no field to offer”
“I have no house to keep”
“Then meet me in the doorway”
“Where waking touches sleep”

The leaf began to wither,
The hinge began to close
They pressed their hands to either side
Of what no body knows

We watered nothing,
Something grew
Not wheat, not roses,
Not a life for two

We planted no tomorrow,
No house, no field, no name
Yet under dead branches,
A door became a flame

O Lachryma, open,
O Lachryma, close
Let one word pass over
Where no body goes

O Lachryma, witness,
O Lachryma, see
Some lovers own nothing
But what they set free

We had no field,
We had no stone,
No roof to keep the winter out,
No room to call our own

Only a dead tree on the hill
And one last listening

If the leaf should open...
say my name