Tree Cutters

And now for our (optional) daily prompt! In her poem, “The Apple Tree in Blossom,” Melissa Kwasny strings together several fantastical metaphors for the apple tree, before shifting into exclamations, definitions, and a series of nimble, tonal shifts – and seeming changes in topic – before circling around back to the apple tree. Today’s challenge asks you to write your own poem in which you use at least three metaphors for a single thing, include an exclamation, ruminate on the definition of a word, and come back in the closing line to the image or idea with which you opened the poem.

I didn’t really follow the prompt today, but the poem that is referenced, “Apple Tree in Blossom”, made me think about something I’ve noticed in Ireland in the last few weeks - the sheer number of trees whose branches have been dramatically cut back! I’m not sure what it prompting this, save for in some cases where trees are being ‘managed’ in response to a storm last year. In other cases, though, it seems very gratuitous. Below is a picture from a street nearby, where the trees for the whole road have been cut with the result that it looks more like a graveyard than a city street. There may be a good horticultural reason for all this tree-cutting, but I haven’t come across it yet.

It seems to have become a fad
The cutting of trees, shearing of leaves
In Spring the tree-cutters
emerged in force
Though work has been ongoing since
The storm last year, when nature, in its
small attempt at vengeance,
flung trees at power lines
Sending a message: Stop!
Put down your phones and do not panic
For this was the way of things
not long ago

In tit-for-tat, zero-sum game
We hit back, cutting off nature's
antennas - points of presence - for creatures
who navigate the sky. Petty communications
battle.

Or does the cutting help the tree
somehow? Are we all becoming banzai monks?

Under sycamore leaves, flying creatures
small and medium-sized, hover for
hours at a time. Their stochastic dance
mesmerising, as I too enjoy shade of leaves

And now, searing sun cuts through bare branches
nowhere to hide
And worse still, is loss of colour
Save for the dark gleam of desolate
wood.