once I loved a catalpa tree
because its leaves stirred heart shaped in the wind
and it was outside the window my only window
living in a yellow house in just one room, an amiable renter, and
sometimes on a screened in porch
where the sun turned my rose spined books a faint pink
and my newsprint map taped up of where the heart spent refugees went
that was when I loved even more than the whiff of lilac on the wind,
the story of emigres who learned to live in books;
the legends of swans.
I saved my coins and went to the ballet
and dreamed then, a different choreography for my life
and like St. Francis I believed that it was right
all things should shine my sister, my brother.
sometimes I still believe that.
it has been a long time now
since the workmen came and sawed the tree down to the ground
where its orphaned birds fluttered around the stump;mystified
why should it die
because it soared and spread its heart helplessly over the wires;
there was no warning
but what would they say
we have come to kill the catalpa tree today>
the city sent us.
mary angela douglas 8 october 2021
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