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.