Today I had an image of you
in my mind as I drove along
the narrow, winding canal road:
A strong, beautiful dogwood tree
standing alone on a hedge row
that runs down the center of
an open meadow, under a gray sky
in our November,
almost hidden from view, nearly strangled,
in a tangle of twisted, gnarling nettles, briars,
Virginia Creepers and other
poison vines.
How I wish I could walk across that
field with the pruners in my back pocket
and a ladder on my shoulder
some early morning
and spend the day clipping
and cutting the strands and leaching vines
off of your trunk, out of your branches;
tear and rip the poisonous roots
out of the ground, and away from your own;
trim back the brush that crowds you.
Sure, you say, I might get scratches
and rents in my clothes,
and itchy, oozing rashes on my arms
and legs�
What a worthwhile price to pay,
for when the spring comes again and you
flower, as you are bound to do,
from every stem on every branch,
all who pass by will take notice,
will slow down to really see
all that is good and lovely
about you
as you bask unhindered in
the brightest of sunshine.