On the east-facing foothills every spring
apple blossoms take to wing
spinning like Quaken Aspen leaves.
Snowflake blossoms fill the sky
gather by puddles like butterflies —
make blossom snowdrifts inches deep.

We disregard saints, temples, words of gold;
what we worship is what we hold
before us: TV, table, gasoline,
power, pussy, hi-tech things. But pruning
is prayer and the tree the granting.
Tree is giving: sheltering, selfless, noble, green.

I’ll climb each tree with loppers and saw
remove deadwood, crossed wood, all
the overcrowded choking wood,
so the sun can reach down deep —
and old untended trees can breathe
and achieve another childhood.

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