Branches and Sharpness

It’s early spring.

There’s cold sunlight

knifing through the trees.

I’ve been sawing off

the lower limbs of rhododendrons

all morning and my chest aches.

The firs seem weepy.

You know, little brother,

next morning you could do anything.

You could practice diving

like Johnny does.

You could move to India.

Feed house sparrows every morning

until they wait for you.

You could do anything, Joseph,

and I’d be so proud of you.

But one day you might wake up

feeling so tired

that you do nothing.

If you decide to do nothing,

how could I keep you

from the frowzy hell I’ve lived in too?

To think, it might be fall already.

The house sparrows might be watching,

the lower limbs might be growing back,

and you might feel

the ache of cold sunlight

knifing through the trees

at just the wrong moment.

It’s still spring now, brother.

Be careful when our mother feels weepy,

and the sunlight isn’t knifing,

and when you are moving through the branches

the sly way you do, sweet Joseph,

because you’re so much more graceful

than I am, and you’ll never have

to saw the branches off.