She had high hopes for a tree that flowered.
So many in this neighborhood were planted
for another place, dense canopies 
you might see in a movie or 
in some part of town
richer & older. 

She hired an arborist, a kind & fussy man
who called each tree by its Latin genus name, 
who spoke surprisingly good Spanish
to his crew scurrying high above,
chainsaws swinging heavily
from their loose belts. 

They removed the old tree, its spiky circular spores
tucked in the grass for years after. She watched
as they lifted the new tree from the bed of the truck,
a canvas bag diapering its thin roots. 

They drove spikes into the earth surrounding
the hole, upturned & fragrant. The roots of the old tree
were left to wither in the unseen deep. 
She imagined the burst of color to come. 

The tree grew & flowered, less bright
than she had hoped. A freak cold snap
historic & long chilled the tree to the core.
Her husband watched it for weeks,
certain something could be saved.

Different men were hired to make rough cuts,
feeding the fallen branches into a machine
at the curb, mulching them briskly 
right before their eyes, dust catching 
in the brittle grey grass.

It grew the next year thick with leaves 
near the trunk. Branches will come anew,
they thought, will come later. 

It flowered as before. It flowers
each year, waving gently 
in the piercing Texas sun.