Awake at 3 AM, I want
to plunge my fists into something, but don’t
know how to bake the bread
that others bake. The lilac light is hanging
as the droplet-shaped bud clusters
in my small yard, the plant I didn’t know
was there until my daughter
pointed out a bee-strafed bush. This spring is
lush, the hemlock and holly bursting. Even
the giant fir that shadows my child’s room
seems to be thriving, its trunk wrapped
in finger-thick vines and climbed with ivy.
I know the tree is dying/needs killing, for mercy
or to save my home, but I don’t know how
to take it down. Instead, I keep my daughter
in my bed, twined in my arms every night,
my eyes open and dry as I listen for impact,
the explosion of wood and glass.