This time of evening in late summer last weekend

Jan said

"Ornamental fruit trees like these" she meant the dying one

"prefer shallow roots." ¶ "And," her Bob gently sighed, "you've over-mulched."

 

He shrugs as a courtesy ¶ I've always liked Jan's Bob. He's counted

the world's folly finger by finger, splinting each as it wagged at him.

Firing some off where bargain bullied vanity off court

how common that is. How often unjust ¶ OOOh, as the owl reports

 

Jan is my Sherlock. Bob among the calmest people I know

is her Holmes. A distressed mock [ fruit of some kind ] tree

in our backyard is the case here

at our confused and no longer confident fingertips

The wick-end sun paints

only the fresh tops of older trees surrounding us like

an imperial court, never pleased. Callow and judgmental.

 

"So!" [over-enthusiasm being a most flagrant, most distracting disguise]

"Jan!

"Why did this tree's leaves fail to prosper?"

 

Two trees grow two peacock strides apart. One's leaves are

clearly healthy. The other leaves look scrawny,

vitamin deprived, like French children in 1943. Half the size

they should be

 

Jan's a technically qualified ornamental tree expert. Before she retired,

she managed a good-sized landscaping business

that remains in business

 

Jan is also our personal matchmaker, Simone and me.

Jan plugged us in together pre online. Before OkCupid eHarmony

 

Stuck her fingers up skirts and trousers

and pushed us together like dolls. "Go to this art show.

Visit the shore and eat local seafood beside the crashing Atlantic.

Propose and wed in Providence police court."

 

Simone and I are one of a kind

so aren't we all so many fingers up our skirts and trousers.

I thought deep roots were better until I heard Jan

Now "I am an ornamental.

Shallow roots are just right for me. Maybe later."