The little dogwood was a delight in flower, Year upon year through the kitchen window. Year upon year I cautiously mowed Around her, careful not to bruise her bark With the trimmer. It is there in the family photos with children Young in swimsuits being sprayed in summer fun. We rolled through the years, We counted buds in the late Fall Excited at the prospect Of white blooms, the reminders of Our Lordʼs Crucifixion Writ on the parchment of blossom. But something struck last Summer; A virus, a bacteria, a fungus, a bug. Who could know. Itʼs leaves withered, Curling like an arthritic hand. It made an attempt at rebirth With leaves pushing through in early Spring On one third of itʼs now snap dry branches. It was like a patient rising in the bed At the hospital pleading that they are alright. I cut her down last week. Close to the ground so the mower Would pass clean. No burial box, no service But perhaps these words will remind Of the paradigm and kinship between all life. We leave roots behind In the minds of those we touch And in the soil we trod.
There are a couple of smaller trees in our back yard that have struggled for the past two years since we had a remarkable near-Christmas plunge in temperature. A couple of our boxwoods are on the struggle bus also, but I hated losing this little guy. A lovely vista out the kitchen window when the morning light hit his bright green leaves in mid-Spring.
What a lovely thought on an earlysummer day