That winter, they fought tooth and nail
Over how best to prune the apple tree.
Dad: sure in his years, like the tree
Perhaps their best years gone by
Or the most celebrated to come.
And, Son: the new idea,
Like newfound loves,
Light, lively and vigorous.
Tree: wind worn, deer scraped
And broken long ago,
Now crooked like time
In places where things move little,
To those who have the patience to see.
Picture Dad: looming over wrinkled pewter skies
Tall on the visions he nurtured long ago,
While the long angles of his fingers,
Turned and knuckled, like the branches,
Tracing the grand plans he still holds,
Across a chill February wind.
And Son: bright, leafy shade tree
For long naps in summer sun,
While his places, perhaps dormant still,
Waiting for Spring warmth
Like the budded branch,
To be rattled and tested on the next stormy wind.