We pulled her green body
from the hillside
on a wet December afternoon
as soft light was sinking.
The pruning and wrestling of branches
the weeping scent
the sap thick sawdust.
The work to resurrect
the turning of the screws
the tipping
and the leaning
and the righting
and the balancing.
Until she stood again.
Her sacrifice.
Our ritual.
Our truest gift.
Bringing the farm
and the old woman at the door
and the moon
into the living room.
The next day
adorned only by morning light
she is a perfect asana in the corner
every branch turned up
and reaching
to the sky.
