Winterwood Poems

THE AUTUMN PRUNING

He carries the necessary tools outside,
Gathers them almost reverently,
Hand tools clasped in one gloved fist,
Long handled ones slung over his shoulder,
Shafts held inside a circled arm.
This is serious business, the fall pruning,
And the master craftsman is at work,
His rough blue overalls and faded denim shirt
Tight over spreading middle,
As jaw set, eyes determined, he begins,
Body bent into his work.

Slack, slack, slack... the metal ladder telescopes
Into its three sections, upward
Into the leafed regions of the great oak.
Ropes dangle through spaces between rungs
And he is testing for balance one last time.
Then he is going up, whistling as he climbs.

I think of the many autumns
I've watched this same progressive ritual
Through all the years of our togetherness
And am reminded that no matter how often
This same exercise is practiced,
His runged steps up this skinny ladder
Somehow always make me hold my breath.
By habit or impulse my hand reaches outward
To steady the ladder, but I am too far away
For touching from this shadowed porch.
He does not see me watching, catching every movement.

He is up, up high,
Past the pale intricate symmetry
Of the robin's deserted, sadly empty, summer nest,
His perfect head disappearing
Into the changing leaf colors.

Momemts pass... then a slow... almost musical...
Thunk... thunk... thunk...
As the long-handled limb trimmer
Follows the dictates of its master's plan.
And branches part, pause, shake, give, come
Floating down, stems and leaves flattening
Against air, fan into it, down, and flop
Softly onto ground from unexpected heights
And in delicate patterns, fall.

They form a slowly widening colored collar
Against the great oak's long brown neck.
Each year this tender ritual is repeated:
As the King pulls pins to loose the Queen's held tresses,
The Queen bestows her jeweled locks of hair.

-Lee Olivier Cleghorn
August 30, 1987