Pruning

The trees were like huge hands buried

In the earth at their wrists, fingers stretching

To the winter sun.  My father tried

To teach my brother and me how to trim

Those hoary hands, so the harvest yield

Would be a giant’s bounty.  We’d watch him

Cut the dormant wood to shape the tree

Into a bowl; to evenly space the limbs

So the young plums would set like green

Rings around the leaf shaded fingers. 

I remember the fear I felt trying to see

Into the next summer, far beyond spring

To future crops, affected by my choices now.

Cutting the wrong twig here would send

A mighty limb into oblivion or sow

A palm nestling dozens of plums.

So as my arm reached to shear that cold

Branch, I hesitated for the last time.