Pruning
Johanna Herrick

I prune my lime tree
under the luminous moon
of early evening. The citrus
smell of broken leaves
is pungent and wonderful.
I know the cutting will make
the tree stronger, more beautiful.
It trusts me and responds to the pain,
for already, even the order of shaping
has produced a different mood for us;
the discarded sprigs on the ground
ring the tree like a variegated lime lei,
my offering to this faithful tree,
my promise that things will change
between us. As I pause in the process
breathe, observe, feel
I encounter the tree, ceasing
to be an "it"and transforming
itself into Buber's "Thou."
In this new, reciprocal relationship,
we move toward holiness, the tree and I,
as I whisper, "You, tree."