The orange truck moves from block to block. Sometimes, kids watch. A cat slinks by. During the next storm, we'll be glad of the branches trimmed to limits. But sometimes, I want to tear down the signs that go up overnight: No Parking. Tree Service. Monday 8-5.
Last day; last haiku
A tree dies in sawdust smoke
Who will I tell now?
---Sara Lewis Holmes
Thank you to all my friends who wrote beside me, and to those who commented here. You made April poetry.
::sigh:: I feel your pain. And yet, the whips that the branches become in a gale are not terribly useful either, except to create an eldritch screeching to a suitably spooky tale... I just cringe at the image of the sawdust smoke - like a smoking gun.
ReplyDeleteLife is a series of compromises, eh?
Thank you for providing a lovely reason to have April.
So, right there. Your comment is a poem in its only right, holding up "eldritch screeching" to remind me of why those branches need to go. Poetry is such a gently and effective way to argue about what is best for this world. Let's keep at it. :)
DeleteI got a little lost in my own poetry writing (and, of course, the Day Job took its toll), so I'm coming back to read through the second half of April...haiku style...through your eyes. I won't comment on all...just wanted you to know I was here, I read, I sighed.
ReplyDeleteThank you for letting me know you came by, Mary Lee. I've loved what you've been posting, and it's been a month filled to bursting with good poetry and great friends. Much to sigh and smile about indeed.
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