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By Annette Basalyga
1. Visiting Pennsylvania
puts trees in my head,
hills turned in ash and maple,
and along the road, sumac and shrubs
I can’t identify. One vignette:
a farmhouse, pond, and willow,
that Oriental tree, its yielding nature
etched adamant in watered silk.
I’m that, or would be.
2. On Saturday, all afternoon
a gardener kills by appointment
a tree I’ve known since childhood.
Its roots endanger water lines.
The allegory’s there, but I’m
more interested in how the work is done
and if I’ll like the view.
3. Evenings there’s nothing much to do.
My children coax a story. I think of how
one lucky lady threw magic seed
into the fallow ground. When I wake up tomorrow
will I find the tree time grew?
Already Easter angels climb by handholds and kneeholds
to a place they guess.
They promise no miracles but ascend
bough after bough in the clear air.
They nod to each other.
They encourage each other.
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Document last modified on: 04/02/2006