MEG EDEN

WHEN WINTER COMES

The poplar tree looks like a sheared lamb,
a head-shaved cancer survivor.
The branches were cut with a crude hand,
one considering practicality, not a woman's
needs–the leaves she drops are slim and I
wish there was something I could cover her
with, to decorate her failing body. But what
are the gifts of a child to the greatness of a tree?

Her limbs no longer fall with torment. She has retreated
from her bitterness, jaded to wind's lust.
Instead, she's learned to keep her branches
firm, that we are only as strong as our quietness.
She holds her body out, ready for winter.
And she waits, enduring even the coldest nights.

* * *

THE HOUSE RECONSTRUCTION BEGINS

Dad points out the plants
we don't want, that we won't bother
to save. To the demolition
crew, he points to the boxwoods:
Don't want. And to the holly: Don't
want. If these were children and not
plants, would we have to make
similar decisions? There is only one
tree my father tries to save, a dog-
wood that has been here since the house was first built. They say they'll see
what they can do, which is all
we can ask from them. As for the flowers,
we smuggle them in pots and rush them
to the top of the hill, knowing this is a flood,
and the earth might never quite be
the same after it's all over.

Meg Eden's work has been published in various magazines, including B O D Y, Neon, HOOT, and Rock & Sling. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and received second place in the 2013 Ian MacMillan Fiction contest. She was a reader for the Delmarva Review. Her collections include Your Son (The Florence Kahn Memorial Award), Rotary Phones and Facebook (Dancing Girl Press) and The Girl Who Came Back (Red Bird Chapbooks).