Arbour Day ode

The dying elm shivered, dried leaves
Torn from ash gray stems,
Purling in shockwave air.

The dying elm shuddered
In engine tumble tempo
As the chainsaw revved.

The dying elm remembered
Sapling sweet eddies
Writhing in reaching to sky.

The sighing woman stopped
At unfamiliar whine in the dull
Still morning of the park—
Dropped her public face,
Unthinking shed her square-heeled camel sandals,
Ran to kiss the dying elm goodbye.