My Neighbor Has a Truck

Amidst a privet twisted with wind,
bent away from greater pain,
battered, I cut off weak offshoots
left to dry neglect. I mule away

the most dead to a merciless pile,
cut down a thirty-foot junk tree
for a young white oak’s elbow room.
Voila a grotto I carved chopping

waste vegetation where I can pray
as they say, but it’s more a simple
honor for the oak, free to rule.
A neighbor will let us load all

detritus into his dark truck.
Does he grind? Dump? Burn?
Do I care? Whatever he’ll earn
will be worth it to me–

one trip two, even three–
as will spasms, infected gouges,
deer ticks dug headlong.
Just haul it all far as need be.