Poem by Jerilyn


The heaviness
of a December ice storm
stumped a large pear tree
for shoots
from roots
and weeds
sticking out of the ground
like victory flags.

Shiny sharp loppers
held captive
in hands determined
not to surrender
whack furiously through
green and brown overgrowth
woven together
like a primitive tapestry.

Time stands still
or rather
moves forward
and backward
in one motion,
as green gloved fingers
gather the fresh cuttings
sifting through old dirt
the dust of ancestors
left to feed
weeds and pear trees.