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It’s time for the tree to fall.
Winds have twisted, borers chewed.
The leaves have yellowed and fallen
and the great saws have been sent for.
How shall I hide that raw wound?
With a pot of Geraniums? A mound of Mums?
The stump still breathes. No worms
tunnel, no woodpeckers pierce.
Come March, new shoots will push up,
not quite enough to cover, but a start.
Underground, rich earth, deep springs.
Thick roots will writhe and coil.