Gwendolyn Soper

The orchard outside my home requires my attention every spring. Early on, before buds appear, I prune the fruit trees to remove some of last year’s growth. As I lift my bypass shears I hear myself say aloud, “I’m nervous,” for I fear I’ll hurt the trees. The trees seem to hear me. They seem to guide me. The communion I feel with them is exquisite and I’m able to shape the trees in such a way that sunlight’s fingers reach in between the branches once the tree has leafed out fully — even to the center. 

Sometimes pruning means I remove an entire branch or sucker. These cuts must be above the branch collar: that important band with cells that know to grow around wounds I cause. If I were to cut flush against the trunk or smaller branch this would injure the tree, sometimes beyond repair — fungus might get in and make things worse for its future. When done correctly it’s beautiful to see how branch collars grow around the wounds eventually. When I’m done pruning I feel pleased and as for the orchard, I can’t describe this well except to say the orchard seems pleased as well. The milkweed patches on our farm, however, only need the attention of pollinators, water, and sunshine. I delight in crouching to observe their activities. 

I approach my poetry writing practice the same way. After a walk through the orchard or a walk to the chicken coop, a poem may come into my mind in a rush similar to the new growth on a fruit tree. I'll write it down quickly. If my poem has promise I’ll prune a little here a little there so, in essence, sunlight reaches its center.