The Art of Careful Pruning
The leaves have grown too dense, touching
roofs, stealing light from the windows.
The neighbor and I want them tamed,
but not too much. The tree-trimmer nods,
having heard this before. He says he’s for hire,
notch by notch. He cinches the buckle on his harness
and shimmies up the tree. Lean and supple
as a birch, he carries an uncommon strength
in his shoulders. He surveys the uncut canvas
of this job, arranging shades of green
with clips from his tool. Every limb he shaves
drops the sky a little closer. From my window, I watch
the neighbor water to the edge of his property,
his spotted dog barking at the base of the tree.
Ours is not a boundary of substance:
what’s his is his, and his is there
and mine is here. He glances up as if he hears
me think. What does he see? A woman writing at a table,
crossing tasks off her list. We need these trees,
need the tangle of new growth to obscure the ordinary
even as we cut it back, again and again.
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