Morning Poem, October 3, 2014

Trimming the Tree


The bowsaw blade is tight in its frame

Like a piano wire, it quivers when touched.

I run the blade lightly over the arc of the maple branch

Shush, it whispers, and makes a new line.


I keep the saw straight, steady and even

Let the blade do the work

and draw it back and push it forth

all the way.


White fragments of wood fall like snow

From sawblade onto blades of grass below


With each stroke the saw bites more deeply

The blade sinking farther in

Ruck, it says


And now the cut is so deep that the weight of the branch


And the branch creaks and droops

And the leaves whisper loud as they move

And the cut opens to a wide V

The saw is freer now

And sings again


and the last splinter severs

and the branch falls away.

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