Bare Tree and Little Wind

Bare Tree and Little Wind

Little Wind skipped through Jerusalem’s palm trees.

His visit made their green fronds clap.

Little Wind took a bow.

“One day we will clap on our own,” Tall Tree said.

“When?” asked Little Wind.

“When Real King comes,” Tall Tree answered.

Little Wind’s next stop was Dead Garden.

Nothing grew there. Bare Tree stood scarred with cuts and scrapes.

No fronds. No fruit. No flowers.

Little Wind tried to move her.

He puffed. “Where are your dates?”

She didn’t stir. “Sold for honey.”

He gusted. “Where are your seeds?”

She didn’t budge. “Crushed for oil.”

“And your fronds?” He was running out of breath.

“Used for a roof,” she said.

Panting, Little Wind whirled around her one last time.

A few leftover shreds fell off her trunk.

“Thank you,” Bare Tree said. “Those were itchy.”

She’ll never clap, Little Wind thought.

Not even if Real King comes.