The Honey Locust

This winter's snows were thick, heavy, and often.

And then there was the ice storm,

          and the power line cracked and spat blue lightning,

          and fell into your frozen arms.

Spring was late coming,

          and when it finally arrived it was a monsoon:

          relentless rains, relentless wind,

          the clouds ever-grey, the sky ever-cold.

You leafed anyway--a lovely yellow-green froth,

          an airy crown of soft gold-kissed blades.

Now you are dying.

The maple across the way is plump with summer sun;

          you hang listlessly,

          a weary girl after a long night,

          verdant gown of lace slipping from your slender shoulders.

You are too young to be so tired.

You set your branches down like heavy burdens.

I gather them in the morning,

          and stack them neatly at your feet.

It could be I am projecting and you will soon raise every stem into the sunlight,

          and outgrow that saucy maple across the street.

But today you are tired,

          rain-beaten,

          sun-starved,

          snow-bruised.

You deserve better. 

You deserve better than this concrete curb, this asphalt creek.

You deserve to return home to the Eastern river valleys.

You deserve a dream of starlings and crows,

          of snowshoe hares and grey squirrels. 

You deserve better than this slow death,

          the impending chainsaw,

          that will leave nothing of you behind

          save for a quiet hole 

          beside my driveway,

          and a disquiet soul

          within my breast.