By Jan Wiezorek,
A dead tree is a limb in waiting,
becoming food for fungus,
lounging itself at a feast
where it is host—so I know
death when I see it—and
this man in bib overalls,
with his long, saintly brown
curls, knows how to rage all hell
out of the woods growing in his yard;
She wants sun, he says, so, the one
in the back will go, too, along
with all the bushes—no, there’ll be
no new plantings, as if chainsaw
trees rob you of the American
Dream, as if selfishness grows
better when facing north.
