written By
our neighbor strives to manage sunlight
on a square where grass won’t grow
My lawn is perfect except for those
damn trees
he groused to my husband and me
while out surveying his property
a hand placed on each hip
a man of the manor
soon after I watch
from an upstairs window
of a sparse space we still call
Lindsey’s room though
she moved out years ago
here to bear witness to his next
tree cutting
this time it’s the maple
with limbs strong and supple
her red lobed leaves
like a prima ballerina
who commands reverence
workers step into harnesses
the arborist nods
a tree cutter climbs up
two on the ground clutch ropes
falling timbers vibrate
ricochet through
the quiet Cul de Sac
I, breathe, bow
close my eyes
the closest I can come to a prayer
