A tree that grew beyond its means, three massive wings
on a trunk that couldn’t bear the height, cracked in a storm.
And so it all comes down, branch by branch this morning,
the leaves rustling as they are thrown, the woodcutter
high in his red metal cage, footed like a giant insect on the lawn.
I stand and watch the work, the shredder’s teeth being fed
by another laborer’s bare hands. It is not my house beneath
the birch and yet I claim it as I do the others along my street
that are not surviving – the plum tree with its memories
of purple studded cakes and jams, the thinning
arbor vitae. Summer edges now to its usual close.
A friend says she has celebrated too many birthdays,
long enough, just let them go, no candles, singing.
The winds pick up. Darker, cool, these short evenings.

Ronnie Hess is an essayist and poet who lives in Madison. Her most recent chapbook, Canoeing a River with No Name, was awarded the 2018 WFOP chapbook prize.