Written in Grey

An arborist rises in the morning,
Stretches their arms to the east and west,
Plants their feet upon the ground
To which they owe their livelihood.
The life-giving ground,
Rich soil, coffers overflowing
With potential.

They don their hat,
Eyes laid upon the horizon,
Focused on the future.
Their tree --
For one tree is their charge --
Stands, leaning, against a blue canvas,
Painting jagged, leafless lines.

An arborist rolls their shoulders,
Anticipating quietly the great work ahead.
Fighting their hand,
This tree
Seems determined
To uproot itself,
To resist the work
The arborist pours in.

They don their gloves,
Hands laid upon the shovel,
Dig, fertilize, water,
Sweat beading,
Back aching,
In the sweltering sun,
The midday grows hotter,
And the arborist
Cannot make this tree
Grow straighter.

A hard day's work done,
And the tree --
Though this tree is their charge --
Grows more crooked,
Slashes and wisps
Of black branches
Piercing the sky
With their disdain.

But the arborist,
Determined to make it right,
Shakes their head,
Smears a tear across their muddy face,
Grits their teeth,
Digs in their heels,
Cultivates new life
Where none exists.

For the tree --
Which is their charge --
Has a core
Of rot.
Soft, splintery wood,
The smell of mildew and humus,
Streaks the inner rings.
A broken branch tumbles to the ground,
Laid bare
For the arborist's unwilling eyes.

Striking out,
Finding new soil,
The arborist turns their gaze upon
A blank canvas
Of rich soil, coffers overflowing
With potential.

The arborist may find
That this new soil
Gives life,
Abundance,
A profusion of harvest.
And that tree --
For that rotten thing was their charge --
Instilled in them
The strength to fight,
And the skill to flourish.