Five trees in our care must go— 
poplars with rotting bodies.
They sway wildly in storms 
and one day will break our back 
fence, our neighbor’s roof. 
 
A man agrees to work in winter,
wriggle up lifeless branches, 
lop off each limb cut down each tree. 
 
I place my hand on the oldest 
tell him what is to come.  
He answers, 
I am tired. I am sick.
 
I feel this with my palm 
as his sap slowly flows. 
I remember the privacy 
his canopy offered us and say 
thank you.
 
I greet his neighbor and place 
my forehead against her trunk. She says,
If you must eliminate me, 
let me be of use. Let me burn 
and keep you warm.
 
My partner does not approve 
of poplar wood. Too soft. 
Too full of sparks. I ask, 
What if you become mulch? 
Will you let something grow 
from you? 
 
Yes.
 
Suddenly depleted of energy
and spurning the other three
I return inside to worry.
What fate awaits a human
who breaks a promise
to a tree?
                        

Weeks have passed since we vacuumed.  
We’re busy watching woodpeckers at the suet.
 
Who cares about cobwebs in the corner?
Not he, devouring news from the capital.  
 
Who fusses about dirt tracked into the carpet?  
Not I, swallowing novels and pecking out poems.
 
Sitting on the floor, I can see where the dirt falls. 
The line becomes a song I warble, and the house laughs.