Those two trees

You planted them
years ago
yards apart
along the trail
that runs next to our home,
hoping to make us
more secure, 
to fill in the holes
where -- without the
lush foliage -- 
scanning eyes of others
could undress us.

How they faltered
those first few seasons,
almost didn't make it
through the transplanting,
barely budding out
leaves consumed by hungry parasites;
the way we pruned and weeded
watered and cajoled them
into fruition
where they now shimmer
with full life:
enough protection to
keep unwanted gazes from us
yet permeable enough for
the grace of sunlight.

Those two trees
so like the two of us
stop and starting over the years
needing pruning and space,
nourishment and care,
battling for deeper sustenance,
waiting for transplanted roots
to spread more fully
into sacred ground.