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