Death of a Flowering Pear
The chain saw cranks up like an electric
guitar and every branch thrums with it—
the falling limbs sound like feet stomping
in some local hoedown, the kind my grandfather
hired on for as breakdown fiddler in Pine Bluff.
The Hacked Down Flowering Pear Tree Blues—
Grandfather had a short fuse and a roving eye.
He’d have had a fit if this tree were his—
plummet of leaves like a geisha’s green hair.
A million white blossoms that will never become
blossoms sing the chorus now, little ghost voices
shining up at the moon on a black spring night.