The City’s come to saw down the pear tree
they planted out front thirty years ago,
when I moved here, replacing the maple tree
that crashed down in a storm—a near-tornado.
At three a.m. a beeping truck arrived
with men in slickers wielding growling chain saws.
Lightning still lit up the eastern sky
as they chopped the maple’s trunk and hauled
the logs away. I asked if they could bring
a pear to re-plant in the maple’s place—
paid extra for it. Pear blossoms every spring!
Just fifty bucks for a lifetime of bouquets—
unfortunately, a tree’s lifetime, not mine.
I grit my teeth against the chain saw’s whine.
Richard Cecil has poetry forthcoming in River Styx and Cincinnati Review.
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