I called winter to pull back the leaves and showed you the brown of the thin branches and told you about the smaller shoots left unattended.
I measured the trunk to show you its width, and how many years it had been strong.
I hadn’t meant for you to focus on the deep grooves snaking up the roots
that you found in the places where the grass failed to grow.
Until that moment, I had never seen it look so bare.
Perhaps it should always be summer.