The white pine is half dead with more orange
needles than green—I face it helplessly
every limb supplicant. Chemicals failed
to kill parasites between its fingers—
I feel its pain and know it wants to live.
Three feet high when I planted it, it’s now
thrice my height, nicely filling the half yard
vacated by grand-mom sugar maple—
my hope to replace lawn mower and
rake with soft walks on moss and pine carpets.
We pray together. I take pictures for
the nursery. Nursery! May we still
rock its cradle to nurture? Let it shake
its body loose of illness, do yoga with
me, breathe together into the night.
Posted for my prompt
Copyright © 2014 S.L.Chast