I planted you with my own hand.
Thin like a finger and trace of green,
the image alone of climbing boys and
tire swings
bent your head.
Your demand for water and soil was
bettered for a time
by direct applications of miracle
solution,
bought at a store
with many aisles numbered and
labeled
by men in uniforms
who once swung hammers.
Some years later, I begin this
annual thin.
The meager specter you were
no more.
I could lose myself now in green
and spy on passing neighbors
if I wished,
but I don't.
This November climb to limit your
furthest reaches
should rightly lean on the learned,
but I take my saw and cut
as whimsy dictates.
One time I worked in a wind storm,
waving with you,
sharing your vigil,
part of your daily sway.
A wretched, clingy beast am I,
clearing pathways just to climb,
finding favor with one branch
by breaking its competition.
No fair trial, no contest of wit or
will.
One beam bends west and I choose it,
one east and I cut it to the ground,
irresolute judge that I am.
No comments:
Post a Comment