Postcards
By Annette Basalyga
1. Visiting Pennsylvania
puts trees in my head,
hills turned in ash and maple,
and along the road, sumac and shrubs
I can’t identify. One vignette:
a farmhouse, pond, and willow,
that Oriental tree, its yielding nature
etched adamant in watered silk.
![](/TFR/fairrevw.nsf/a88ae82752c9e4058525667b004841ab/eed9b6da039f5624852570830000dc90/Body/0.6C6?OpenElement&FieldElemFormat=gif) I’m that, or would be.
2. On Saturday, all afternoon
a gardener kills by appointment
a tree I’ve known since childhood.
Its roots endanger water lines.
The allegory’s there, but I’m
more interested in how the work is done
![](/TFR/fairrevw.nsf/a88ae82752c9e4058525667b004841ab/eed9b6da039f5624852570830000dc90/Body/0.CAA?OpenElement&FieldElemFormat=gif) and if I’ll like the view.
3. Evenings there’s nothing much to do.
My children coax a story. I think of how
one lucky lady threw magic seed
into the fallow ground. When I wake up tomorrow
will I find the tree time grew?
Already Easter angels climb by handholds and kneeholds
to a place they guess.
They promise no miracles but ascend
bough after bough in the clear air.
They nod to each other.
![](/TFR/fairrevw.nsf/a88ae82752c9e4058525667b004841ab/eed9b6da039f5624852570830000dc90/Body/0.16A8?OpenElement&FieldElemFormat=gif) They encourage each other.
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