The Trim

They come to her.

In trucks.

Ropes, ladders, chainsaws.

In boots and uniforms and masks

and baseball caps.

and

they

cut

her down.

Strip her,

to her bark.

They rob me of her shade. 

Suddenly,

I can see

everything,

outside of my window. 

And I feel exposed.

And sad. 

But this morning.

I sat at my desk,

bay windows wide open,

curtains thrown back,

and she greets me,

with bushy blooming,

wild patches of new pines,

and she whispers,

“aquí estoy mujer,

siempre, estoy aquí,
siempre renazco..."