The Branch

Since they were morose in August,

not worth saving,

I paid to have the junipers torn out

trunk and root, the roots had enough strength

to pull the truck back down so hard

the wheels broke the brick walk.

Heaped in front of my house,

cousins of the tree of mercy,

the green and dry gray branches

that did not suffer

but had beauty to lose.

Damp roots, what do I know

of the tenderness of earth,

the girlish blond dust?

Rather than have the branches dumped or burned

I dragged them to the bulkhead

and pushed them into the sea.

I know the story of a tree:

of Adam’s skull at the foot of Jesus crucified,

of the cross made of timbers nailed together

that Roman soldiers saved from the destroyed temple,

that King Solomon built from a great tree

that rooted and flourished

from a branch of the tree of mercy

planted in dead Adam’s mouth,

that the branch was given

to Adam’s third son Seth by an angel

that stopped him outside the wall

when he returned to the garden,

that the angel warned him

that he could not save his father

who was old and ill

with oils or tears or prayers.

Go in darkness, mouth to mouth

is the command.

I kiss the book,

not wanting to speak

of the suffering I have caused.

Sacred and defiled,

my soul is right

to deal with me in secret.