Shape

Before you sever a single limb,

see the shape emergent—

a pattern stored within

the dormant, tangled frame.

Read the signs of canker,

the boughs now broken,

the branches too brittle

to hold a hopeful future.

Give space for air to breathe,

an open form.

Keep the spurs that bear

imagination’s bloom.

In winter’s cold hush,

see the promise of spring,

the ripening of summer,

the weight of autumn’s harvest.

Trust your hand—

cut with sure strokes.

Let the tree mend

and find its truer shape

Rob Read