The plum tree in our front yard
was radically and inexpertly trimmed.
In the summer, clear gobs of gelled sap
Issued from its countless wounds
like stationary tears.
In winter it was naked and black
and bent at cruel angles
like an early prosthetic device.
But in the spring, it was a young woman.
Every brittle twig wore the whitest blossom sleeve
and its evanescent perfume
sweet and familiar as honey
strange and unsettling as the voices of the Sirens
whispered promises of everlasting bliss