The live arbutus carries dead branches

grey wood twisted tight

within the framework of the tree –

impossible to snap off,

forged as it dries.

And in me, parts I can’t imagine

myself without – silvering.

Healthy branches flower.

Rufous hummingbirds arrive.

Berries hang in clusters, fall.

Strips of papery ochre skin peel away

from the smooth green muscle

of spreading limbs.

But I know what lasts.

What claims each twig is hard

to carve into spoons or boxes,

or burn.

How gracefully the tree

holds up these swords

among its branches.