Cherry Tree
The foot-long split cane
looks up at thirty years
of cherry tree breaking out its stays.
A chicken-scratch wire skirt is short
against it. If we climb
the latest branch before sky
(lookout higher than last year’s),
we will still not be able to tell
the time on St Margaret’s church clock.
The stones of the tower still
fall outside.
But the purple leaves invite us to try.
In my shorter life, a tree like this
was cut and jammed with creosote
that spread its sick sweetness to the root.
Now I remember a younger sister pushing up
from rhododendrons.
I wonder why, when doubt cracks
the dry pavement around the edges of the house,
are we so quick to abandon these certain trees.
