The bare tips of the peach tree
Have been trimmed to such neat twigs,
Each grey branch looks the same length
In the low sun from the south,
As if you could trace a line
From where the trunk splits the soil
Out to an end of your choice
And end up with the same length
As all lines you did not take.
This is a sign, if you like—
Like all the fruit and nut trees
In the walled-in yard next door,
Owned by a soul with the means
To hire a man to prune them.
A gust blows and they all shake.
So do the pines no one’s trimmed.
So do the dried-out brown weeds
That line this side of the wall.
These, too, are signs, if you like.
Why do you like signs so much?
Monday, January 11, 2021
Next Door
