Listen! That bump against the steps—he’s back.
The dog comes floundering on his track,
His shaggy clumps are lumped with ice, he shakes
Vociferously his drippy coat and makes
Straight for the kitchen—he’s a dog, the kind
Who takes no longer than he should to find
What’s in his pan—or isn’t. It’s cold mush
This time. The man has just kicked off the slush
And shuffled up the steps. They’re awkward things—
Those bear-paws, when the rawhide’s caked; he flings
His soggy mittens off and takes his hat
And swishes it across the frozen mat.
He clatters on the porch—then stoops to loose
The knots that hold his boots fast in the noose,
Kicks free his weary feet and stands his hook
Against the logs. He has an all-in look
Tonight—that crook that’s got his shoulder-blade
Is pruner’s luck—a man’s arm isn’t made
To reach and twist all day without some bit
Of ache to take home with him when he’s quit.
That wind-tan and the stubble-growth of beard
That’s cropped out on his chin and gotten smeared
Around his throat, they do a useful turn—
They temper cold and dull the bright snow-burn.
It snowed this morning when he went away
With those big bear-paws on—it snowed all day;
And though his sleeves and neck are soaked a lot
With all the constant reaching up, it’s not
So bad—the snow—for when it’s four feet deep
Or so, a pruner doesn’t have to keep
That raking stretch. Another day and night,
If it keeps up like this, will fix it right.
All yesterday it rained—he didn’t stop,
Just went ahead and pruned—and let it drop.
The day before was sun—a blinding glare
On snow—it’s amber goggles then and they’re
Forever getting fogged. Of course a day
Gets sort of tucked in now and then that may
Not be so bad, although they’re pretty few,
But good or bad there’s little else to do
In winter-time, but prune. And it is plain,
A man who loves his trees won’t stop for rain
Or cold or driving snow or dazzling sun
Until the job he started on is done.
To any man like that a tree is bound
To mean more than a root shoved in the ground,
For they are his, his own, his pets—just like
His kids. They’re part of him and so they strike
Into his heart. He’s cuddled them, he’s stuck
With them through all the ups and downs of luck;
Instead of chicken-pox he’s had to fight
Anthracnos, winter-kill and scab and blight;
He knows his rows—what every tree’s been through,
The one’s who’ve done him proud and strugglers too.
And he remembers how, four years ago—
That day the big freeze came with all the snow,
He found the weighted limbs of some of them
All split and broken from the mother stem.
That’s why there’s something human enters in
To pruning trees—it almost seems a sin
Sometimes to lop off here and lop off there
The wood you’ve coaxed with such a heap of care;
Like punishment it seems, and though it’s wise,
Those fruit-spurred boughs are hard to sacrifice.
And when he takes a tree and prunes the wood
The way it should be done for that tree’s good,
He does not see the severed sticks that show
Black-twisted there upon the trampled snow—
To him, each one’s a green-leafed bough that’s gone,
With all its scented crimson apples on.
His blouse is steaming now—hung on a chair
Before the kitchen-stove—she put it there.
She’s humming cheerful-like, tonight it’s toast
And coffee and potatoes and pot-roast;
He will forget his shoulder after while,
And when he’s filled and dry—he’ll smile.