The Man In The Tree

He knocked on the door,

a small man with brown skin.

Gerardo, was his name,

he asked, “Can I cut your tree?”

The tree, over fifty years old,

usually pruned, stood overgrown

in the front yard and needed his attention.

The price was good so we agreed

he would come in the morning.

I expected the loud buzz of a chain saw

didn’t know he was already working

until I looked out the window.

He worked alone.

Clipping each

branch while he sat at the top

precariously balanced on the largest one.

I don’t know what he thought

when a strong winds swept through,

45 miles an hour or so,

afraid he would be blown

to the ground, or worse, taken

to the land of Oz I listened but

no shout or a call

for help, he held his position,

continuing to clip and shape the tree.

Something in his nature;

His patience with chaos, taking time to clip

then rake up the debris. He made me smile.

When his work was done the tree

was shaped like an umbrella

perfect for shade throughout

the summer.

His labor,

the work of an artist,

an act of love

for his God above.