a pruned tree sits

in the corner of a room

naked but for its vibrant

green leaves 

pruned 

trimmed 

cut to shape and size, 

perfect in all ways 

conceivable 

sitting pretty to be mooned 

over and admired –

able to be shaped and 

molded like a hedge 

to suit the needs and 

wants of its owner. 

a tree, pruned and cut down 

to an unnatural starkness, 

denied the warmth and

comfort of its wild branches. 

 

for one, the tree is 

tall and smart,

confident and proud.  

 

for another, the tree is 

precisely how it’s wanted,

small and dumb 

without faculties and 

full of hesitation. 

 

the tree sits 

pruned

lifeless 

cold and withering 

dry and dehydrated 

under unbearable lights

and the sharp burning 

of eyes, smiling eyes 

who don’t know. 

 

the pruned tree rests 

precariously on a battered 

stump, cut and cut and cut 

until it will sit flat. 

the tree has fooled itself,

has had to fool itself,

into complacency. 

 

because look,

look at their smiles

and their laughter. 

 

they love me, touch me 

gingerly, decorate me, and 

place presents beneath me. 

 

I’m perfect this way

and that way

and that way 

but not wild. 

never wild. 

the ornaments would

not hang. 

no, my leaves would not

smell as sweet. 

I would hurt them. 

 

a pruned tree sits 

gaudily decorated, 

heavy beneath the 

baubles 

and the eyes.