Each Spring
Each spring the fig tree bursts at the ends
of bare branches like Fido in heat, and
there's one empty bird nest: an epigenous
ornament out of season in mid-March.
"April is the cruellest month," T. S. Eliot
wrote. He who understood growth
is pain, a thrust of agony. So, be about
your birthing, little bush--push out leaves,
cringe at the episiotomy of knife and shears.
Hear me crooning, "There, there, I will be quick..."
No blood spurts out in slash of azalea, in
burst of bottlebrush. No inky ooze in purple
periwinkle that slept all winter. I prune
the shove and shaft of elm, as it fulfills its
promise of shade and safety, behead
the poisonous crawling vines, their deadly
embrace, shake the pines for cones,
so perfect, so concise. Would that I might
morph that way each spring--perfect,
concise, whatever the price.
Copyright © Nola Perez | Year Posted 2007
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