There's this tree in my backyard.
Well, it's not my backyard because
the tenants can't use it, plus
the trunk is planted in the yard
next door. But, 
it's my tree. 

I think about that tree constantly. About how
it has too many branches, and
the branches look like veins. And when
it's raining, like today, the water droplets on
the tip of each twig are visible from
the distance of my kitchen window. 

On the other side of the useless gate that 
divide the yards, is a plastic chair.
It's such a sad chair. 
On it are the twigs I once left there 
when my nephew and I played 
Harry Potter and used them 
as wands.

Sometimes I imagine someone
sitting there, a witch,
because at night the branches look 
like claws.

Now I can’t look in the direction 
while washing dishes
because I'm convinced she's 
watching me.
I can feel her.

My imagination runs 
wild sometimes,
So wild, it becomes 
real.

As I look towards my yard now,
She’s sitting in the chair, besides her 
woodland friend. 

I need to move.

Again.