When the March storm wouldn’t spare punches
and our front yard elm snapped in half,
its broken body collapsed across the driveway.
The luxuriant crown sprawled across the wet black,
rasped for lost sustenance. Impotent,
I watched from the window and notched
my life with yet another tree:
billowing pink bouffants of dogwoods
that intoxicated my young daddy,
the weeping willows that forgave
my parents’ fights—
my brother and I crawling under skirts
of a cul-de-sac’s giant pine, our secret
club for beheaded Barbies
and stolen cigarettes—
first kiss along the river
in the sticky hollow
of an oak’s furry bosom,
my mother’s glow as confidant—
the sheltering pin oak that won
my father’s heart when he made
his first downpayment
for an abiding couple’s grave—
sentinel twin maples that celebrated
my homecoming from every morning run,
three witness oaks murdered by our
next-door neighbor, grieving crows for days.
Each spring, tree men troll to our front door and swagger
with chainsaws for internment of our broken elm.
But we adore our stubby Pippi Longstocking
in ballerina’s fifth position, buoyant
branches sprouting for the sun.
Rikki Santer‘s poetry has been published widely and has received many honors, including several Pushcart and Ohioana book award nominations and a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Humanities. In 2023, she was named Ohio Poet of the Year.