Trees and I

have histories.

Take katsuras.

I am friends

with one

who lives an hour away.

I have one of its children

growing

in my side yard.

I speak to it every day.

So young,

so alive.

How

might I

straighten

her limbs

by a course of pruning?

No.

That won’t do.

That spot I want to prune

is where

my grandaughter

will climb

and sit

and read

and be held

and protected

by my katsura friend’s

child.

In her hand.

My job

is to

protect

them both

from the darkest

shadows

of futurity.