Broken Limbs

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

The first morning was a surprise.

I had planned to rise and shower,

and then fill the old clawfoot tub

with water.

But fourteen inches had already stacked

upon itself and the deck railing,

and the evergreens were bent by the

weight of sagging boughs.

“They’ll snap!” seemed a far more

important thought than,

“Dang it! The power is already out.”

So, I rushed into my lined boots

and coat

and gloves

and woolen hat –

the one that covers the ears

and has long tassels

that hang like a young girl's braids,

And shushed through the

heavy, wet snow,

first for the young cypress.

It had been a gift from

a departing neighbor;

I was explicitly its steward.

“Oh no!”

Not soon enough. Limbs

had torn from the thin trunk,

but not many.

I brushed and shook until the

body and what arms could,

lifted.

And then, swiftly, to the boxwoods.

These elders.

These outskirts of the homestead

that would have reflected upon

every winter day by candlelight.

They must be freed.

Taller than I, I had to learn how

to shake off their snow

without having it hit me in the

face like the reminiscent snow balls

I had failed to dodge in my youth.

And then the small cedar.

Oh, it could have broken in two!

I think they appreciated the effort,

Those burdened trees.

But I’m not sure that it really matters

if they did. Or, did not.

Sometimes the most important thing

you can say to the world

at the beginning of the day

is that you are willing

to show up,

and to serve.

© 2013-2014/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Winter: Reflections by Snowlight"
Published by Hiraeth Press; www.hiraethpress.com

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