Half a Tree
The two house finches don’t care,
fidgeting in the upper branches
muttering to each other as they do,
old marrieds, flighty and finchy.
They ignore the great flat scar
that has raked half the trunk,
dry and healing at the edges, also ignore
the old man looking up, dry and peeling
at the edges as well. And the redbud itself
doesn’t care, just throws itself
into making another pink-purple flower
from every knuckle of twig,
throws itself into creating
a half-sphere of spring on this little
patch of lawn. It also ignores
the man who a year ago excised
the storm-wrenched branches,
completed the hemi-amputation,
trimmed and planed and hoped.
If the tree thinks anything at all
it is a dismissive rustle that whispers
I could just as well have done it myself
in my own way, all of this while
the man worries about rot
and borers, doubts the tree can make it
another year, expends all his faith.
Or just maybe, as finches raise
their tumbling song, as pink-purple rules
the season, maybe the man discovers
any half life is enough.
Bill Griffin is a poet, essayist, and nature photographer who explores in his writing themes of ecology, community, and the search for meaning. Read more.