Two Trees

A mother poses in the front yard
For husband and camera
Next to her two daughters,
With a pair of long-needled saplings behind
In a black-and-white glimpse
Of their fatherless future.

In the shade of these growing trees,
The oldest blossoms in the rich soil;
The youngest is stunted by a lack of light.
Below their feet, unbeknownst,
The pines' roots tangle with the piping
And one another.

In time, this mother's children,
Per custom, move away
And the trees disagree,
Raining brown needles, hailing dead cones.
The weakened branches dislodge
And strike the earth, the fence, the garage.

The holidays draw the daughters back,
Like planets from their furthest points in orbit.
They arrive with seeds of their own
Who play, like their mothers prior,
Under the oblivious trees.
Dinner is shared,
Presents are exchanged,
And they disperse again—
The bigger with husband and sons;
The smaller with children and another loan

And this daughter spends it faster than before,
Returning under a caretaker's guise,
Parking in the driveway for good.
Sap drips on her dented car.
Oil puddles below on the asphalt,
Cracked from the displacement down deep.

Soon their aging matriarch will leave them
Her house, her trust, and the two trees
Without protection from this daughter's hack-job:
The unpaid second mortgage,
The unclaimed responsibility,
The unmerciful bank

And two vacated circles of dirt—
Their memories foreclosed and uprooted.