by Cam McGlynn

Every spring, fewer of her branches awaken.
I used to trim back the deadwood,

leaving her canopy a cock-eyed haircut,
but now I leave the gnarled knuckles of limbs

to dry and verdigris with moss and algae.
The lifeless boughs still have a purpose:

homes to the burrowing grubs,
and food to the politely knocking woodpeckers,

hollows for the honeybees
to measure with their wings for a new hive,

balance to her lopsided crown of blossoms,
so that blooming won’t drag her body down.

The robins still build their yearly nest in her arms.
The squirrels still hide from the hawk.

The child still perches in her limbs,
a bare-footed sprite in the leaves.

We too are always in the process of dying.
What dead wood still serves me?

Image by Aitor Laramie Zabala via Pexels