The Arborist

The Arborist

Mary R. Finnegan

The arborist arrived, took a quiet look
at the grove then stepped back to scan
slowly from left to right in straight lines.

Leaning in to each tree he listened
for the rhythm of seasons, the beats
of light and shade, the meters of beauty
amidst the overgrown, misplanted rows.

A pen in my fingers, a page ready for notes,
I steeled myself for his expert diagnosis.
He held up his hands. Hear me out, he said.

That elm tree glowering in the corner,
it’s nothing but dead wood, and with a swing
of his red handled axe, the elm was gone
and the wood took a breath and breathed.

These two apple trees, they belong together,
but not here. Let’s move them to a better place
where they can bear fruit sweet for pies
and crumbles, but still tangy enough for cider.

Finally, he turned to my darling magnolia,
her petals longing to bloom, but barren
on the branch. He began to prune: clipping
cutting the too heavy, the diseased, the hopeless

until the magnolia soared and the grove
became the song I sing in my dreams.

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Mary R. Finnegan
Poet & Nurse

Mary has been published in PILGRIM: A Journal of Catholic Experience, American Journal of Nursing, Dead Housekeeping & Medical Literary Messenger

Photography by Hamza Nouasria