When just a shrub, the juniper’s one arm
rose above the winter snow drifts
waving recklessly in the wake of the passing snowplow—
hello—wake up neighbor—the plow noisily
scraping down the street, jumbling
the wet snow into building blocks for childhood igloos.
A few choice cuts by the arborist
failed to beautify the juniper, that is,
if you believe in standards of beauty.
But winter’s force sculpted the arm
into an ocean wave frozen even in summer.
You’d be excused, if frowned at
by your friends, to call the juniper a wreck
of a tree, when so many
Chevys and Fords rust away without complaint
in breakdown lanes and driveways.
Summer has come, reckless and resilient
with fires and sun, with the juniper,
still frozen and part of winter beckoning.
