I called her the Ballerina.
She was poplar.
They said she was dangerous,
and cut her down.
Washed out by the creek’s relentless flow, she’s losing balance.
Roots exposed, gravity pulls.
Throwing her branches wide to the other side
brings harmony back to her dance.
Her silvery leaves shimmer in the sunlight,
but only winter reveals all her grace.
Leafless, weightless, frozen in motion,
yet joyful in posture.
She’ll fall, she’ll hurt someone, maybe a child.
Excuses, explanations, rationalizations.
Maybe it’s justified. Grace cut down.
But she’s not dead. She’s poplar. They sprout.
Today, many saplings fight for the sunlight.
Who grows into the next Ballerina?