The arboretum hosts a boney crew.
Naturally, it’s autumn, winter closing,
but I’ve kept them healthy, even
the saplings. My little thoughts to tend.
Give it twenty years. I’ll have them tall,
strong, with each a bough thick and solid.
That is, if I resist this peculiar lust,
to drive a spade to the bedding, sever
the roots, tear them out, and lay
them on the lawn for all to see.
I’ll compromise: an arborist, one who
carries a blunt axe and a thirst for lumber.