Pruning a Limb
Richard Luftig

It always comes as such a surprise,
when an old oak limb turns up
dead. But only last spring we sat
under one of the other branches
in full bloom and commented how that limb
seemed to produce less buds, less
leaves from year to year, turning death
onto itself like a gangrene from tip
to trunk. We recalled how we planted
this tree and its sister, same size,
same day, but how only this one took,
as if determined to survive Midwest
drought, winter cold, determined
to grow along with our children
who dug the hole, planted the roots,
watered it, said a prayer for it
and then walked away to live
their own separate lives.
How shocked they would be
if they were here to witness
its ongoing death, to learn
that all lives don't play out
the same, or that some of us simply die
where we've been sown.

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