It pulled out of the ground easily
the root had not taken hold of the soil
with its connection to sustenance interrupted;
rigor mortis was beginning to set
as branches gray and brittle
had not thrived from the interference.
The tree was a donor’s gift
that she planted for no particular reason
in a flower patch next to the garage.
Never mind that it would grow tall
and its roots would crowd under
the siding and, likely, the cement floor;
but it didn’t whither and with attention
began to look alive and carry on
with living season to season.
She moved forward, not taller,
counting out twenty two pills daily
to feed roots and thwart disease.
But then something changed, she
dropped needles and leaned to hold
on to an upright position.
Over a winter, wind chill
when growing things are silent
balancing on a dark edge
she left easily, not tethered to
the Earth as others, in fear, do
not alive, but always ever green.