Still Life with Dogwood

Workmen littered the spring green yard

with cut branches trimmed from the dogwood tree.

My silent scream echoed her quiet one.

She took five years to grow so tall and full,

this beauty landscapers sheered and shaped with-

out asking.  I gathered the nearly dead.

Now my widest glass vase offers water

to dark leaves and pale blossoms drooped

into bells that will never testify.

Please ask before further cutting, I beg. 

Little can thrive in this small plot—graveyard

for grass, roses, rhodies, and vegetables.

We embrace forgiveness and prevention

right here where it hardly matters.  Until

the least matters, the greatest never will.

(Truly, I’m pleased to talk, to care, to have

an instinct for nonviolent action

and tenderness rather than swift vengeance.)

(April is International Poetry Month.)

My blog poems are rough drafts.   

Please respect my copyright. 

© 2017 Susan L. Chast