It’s time for the tree to fall. Winds have twisted, borers chewed. The leaves have yellowed and fallen and the great saws have been sent for. How shall I hide that raw wound? With a pot of Geraniums? A mound of Mums? The stump still breathes. No worms tunnel, no woodpeckers pierce. Come March, new shoots will push up, not quite enough to cover, but a start. Underground, rich earth, deep springs. Thick roots will writhe and coil.