I’m surprised to see the dying oak spout
green leaves–a full crown of new growth.
When they cut its branches–when they stacked
limb on limb down by the dumpster,
we thought it was a done thing. This culling
must have helped. From this, I have learned that
sometimes it’s prudent to prune away, to sheer
back, to defenestrate. Maybe there’s a chance–
but I have never been good at such economies.
At day’s end, I pile self onto self like pyre,
our own little mountain in the city’s middle.
Night falls–its promise, tomorrow’s new day.