Dragging clumps of severed limbs behind us
Clawing frenzied as they cross each knot 
Of dried grass against the frozen ground,
My brother and I trudge heavy like 
Plough mules along the step worn path. 

We toss the still pliant branches as high up 
On the expanding pile as we can
Where they quiver as a breathless being
Hunched and ready to leap back down 
And do sometimes upon our dodging heads.

Then back we move slowly steady
Maybe a twirl or a jig added when dad isn’t looking
As we do not want him to see that any energy remains in us
Else the afternoon chores might go on and on 
Seeming deadenly endless already. 

He is busily shaping yet another of his bare winter apple trees
Into the perfectly symmetrical being 
That he will see again in warm weather
Replete with leaves and blossoms and eventually fruit 
So large and heavy so happy a load that he will
Need to prop up the drooping branches with two by fours
Both to support the fruit and the little boys 
Who will nest there for awhile each summer day
When shade and fruit combine to form 
The perfect retreat for the hungry and the docile. 

Barren now and starkly looming above 
The cold brown earth that holds them down 
Each stands a multi pointed supplicant to the winter sky
Their aimed fingers calling for a reprieve to the feeble sun,
To the frozen evening stars, to both the light and the dark, 
While those branches deemed unnecessary 
Fall helpless, the lopped detritus of the pruner,
Who shapes the world to meet his individual needs.

We too fall beneath his lopping tools intensely sharpened and cruel
As he seeks to direct our growth in his own way
Cutting back those unhealthy habits 
While feeding well those blooming traits he wants to grow. 

Funny I guess how my brother had all of those trees
Bulldozed beneath the same earth or burned in untidy piles
While the old man failed slowly in the rest home
Before he had even closed his eyes for good
So freeing both of us at last to make our own rootless lives 
Without the husbandry of another.