I could cut away. An
apparent. Dead thing. To
keep life I. Was farming
by frost. Fog. Endless
from over. The Coast
Range. Birdless skies. By
March. Staring down
a stand. Of Oregon
white oak. Willing them
to leaf. Late. Last winter
after. She . I
was. Grateful for gray. How it
allowed. Me to crouch. Down
and. Cry. On my
knees. In three
pairs of pants. My short
-handled. Bypass loppers
at the place. Where plant
meets earth. Crying
like a dumb. Beast. My
hands huge and. Numb
in thick gloves. I
was . I was. Building
a knot of the
pruned. Kept trailing
pieces. Home. Green
wood. My mind’s
own. Ceaseless
clumping. Of . You
must remove. A third. Of
the plant. If you want
healthy fruit. In the
spring. You have to let
go. By early
sunset. Brown mounds
of clippings. Marched
down. Rows. Near the last
day of winter. Her
birthday. March. As
children. I remember
we . There
were years. We were. Like
sisters and then. Just
blood. This year I. Will
turn twenty- . Older
than she . By the
time. The blueberries
were ripe and. Stupidly
round. Their sweetness
sickened. Me. In every
dusted sphere. A girl
crouched. Crying. I had
removed my. Thirty-three
percent. But had
not. Let it go.