She stared at her childhood tree
with the missing swing
where her sister once played in life

Behind the branch cracked window
of the house inherited from her mother,
she meditated on her husband’s gift
conjuring up a spectacular notion
though she starved but for love
with money from his carvings

Someday the perfect wood
he would carve with love

For now, an odd job here
and there could be no
saving his carving tools

He sold them to buy a swing of memories,
so she could finish grieving

She cut down the tree she knew
was the perfect block of wood

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