MARIE'S TREE

My neighbor has this tree

keeping her up at night.

It’s beautiful—

and very old.

She wonders:

will it fall on the neighbor’s car

or her own front porch?

She worries enough

for the rest of us.

But this tree greets me when I wake up

and tucks me in most nights.

I marvel at its perfection—

a gnarled work of art.

Massive tentacles

reach up from the earth;

refuse to let me look away.

Then each spring:

Cherry Blossoms.

But my neighbor suffered a great loss.

It was another tree,

that broke her heart.

A dinosaur Catalpa, so big

it garnered statewide acclaim.

Then a storm took its right arm,

diminished it somehow.

If only she had pruned its reach.

Memory still fresh,

she thinks on it some more:

Should I get it over with?

Just lop the tree down this fall?

Don’t do it.

The neighborhood would weep.

But you took down your maple.

That was different.

The heart rot was advanced.

Yours just has some lichen,

a little jewelry.

The arborist said it can't hurt.

So, what will it be?

Self-fulfilling prophecy:

broken heart by chainsaw?

Or maybe a cup of chamomile,

and watch time’s slow decay.

Across the street,

I sip my Orange Pekoe

and hope for one more spring.

© 2026 Carla Tanguay White