I went to lop the young tree’s limbs today―
Its arms shot heavenward, green and bright,
And when my blade slit the crisp air of May,
It lodged, hellbent, in a cruel and bitter fight.


My saber was relentless, and so was the tree,
But soon the grain gave way and bled sap.
The thick amber flow poured right onto me,
In a stubborn stream, straight into my lap.


Though still, within this garden, the elder was
Watching all the way over at my blade and me―
Its branches dry and bare, brittle as a china vase,
Longing―and longing still―to relent to me.