Limbing in Autumn
Mike brings his
chainsaws and his crew,
stout Hispanic
men with rough hands
And soft smiling
faces.
He hoists himself
up into the old maple
To bring down a
rotten limb,
Already
half gone, an long ugly stub
That threatens
our power line,
Come the next ice
storm.
He ties himself
to the trunk,
A climber's
harness cinched tight
To his middle
aged waist,
And complains
from his perch
As the wind picks
up,
'I'm too old
and fat for this'
Leaning into the
upturning branch for support.
I imagine myself
up there,
Then leave it be,
Vertiginous at
the mere thought.
The saw roars,
spewing shavings
Like the snow now
threatening
And they drift
into the black hair of the crew.
The limb falls,
One slice at a
time
Rounds clunking
the ground
Like mallets on a
big bass drum.
Below the crew
smile, haul wood,
Assemble several
spare saws
Like cutlery at
the dinner table
Thus one winter
worry ends,
The tree's
symmetry is restored
And I retreat
into the warm den
To wish for snow.
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