Frank Corcoran

The hot saw whines up on my accacia tree . If the two men slip now. A ton weight whorled roots of enormous dead ivy which nearly strangulated the tree. Now it´ll begin to respire in great July heat. Don´t fall, kill a child or the house or any of us. Last year I saw how the snake shimmied up the same tree on the egg-hunt. Where is it this morning? Dislikes whirring saws? Keeps away from the arboreal action, the crack and slap? The birds´ll get over it. We and the tree will live to breathe again; ” My young love, Buddha / Came to us softly sleeping / And his sap rising “…. Corcoran 2010 as the first of my choral ” EIGHT HAIKUS “. No bad year. Oops, down crashes another dead branch, rotten, huge. We´ll get finished before the high nineties soar, get indoors, batten the heat-hatches, take pleasure in accacia light.