Common Prayer t o Tree Gods and Goddesses malusioenis Not a Nebraskan tree, but the tree I lived behind rose pink as a float in a parade, as a kith and kin of the Lorax. On May Day, the retired librarian, the neighbor, said trim the limbs that blocked her mailbox, its big letter N. I waited until dusk as she tottered all day, gardening, tidying with broom and dustpan in her drive sweeping petals. Call it one bright flowering tree among many shading the road. Called it a necessary parking where letters flag white trucks. You were gone, had never swallowed the sour fruit of fall, not the berries of the yews or the buckeye?s nuts. That?s fine. Or counted the honeybees slow morning crawl in the sedum, the bumblebee?s burble among berry blossoms. More blue collar than wife of a college professor, more like the last ditch chance for blue eggs, the way waxwings dined on the red withered jewels of spring. This tree has suckers and dandelions, silver dust and pansies that refused to die, ignoring the zone. She was ours and now mine. I miss the nonsense of nursery rhyme, the public library?s granite floors, spiral stairs, and children?s room. They taught if a silver tray of sugar water doesn?t feed the butterflies, plant thistle and fennel, all the witches herbs. They taught that if asked, kings will fill our baskets with cranberries and blueberries, that this kingdom, this arboretum, is home.
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