Fox and Pine

If I sang to the trees of you,  
opened up the shell of my youth,  
and beat my fists on fallen leaves,  
it wouldn't make it come back to life.  

You were crisp, I wasn't enough,  
not lean as whip, or a dog to love.  
I was feral, wild as a fox,  
with a disease, medication lost.  
 
You ran with me, between the pines,  
I lived for the intertwine of our lives,  
had to find another reason when you left,  
too late to trust you when you returned bereft.