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.