buckthorn tender_square she didn’t set out to cut a bunch of buckthorn down. she was trimming with pruning shears, lopping off long branches, ones with petite white flowers like wings of cabbage butterflies, going deeper into the thicket to get to the appendages that grazed the power lines to the house. last summer, a branch toppled there. a storm shook it loose and it balanced like an overweight highwire walker. a man had to be called, a specialist with longer shears, to dismember the thick branch, piece by piece. she always thought buckthorn were trees she shouldn’t touch, part of the ecosystem of her yard, a wall of privacy that kept her separate from her neighbours. the slender trees spread prodigiously, taking over more of the yard with summer’s pass. it was eden, and she was eve, desiring the pain of living, the knowledge of more. there was satisfaction in the cut, opening the bladed beak and wrapping it around the trunks, the strength of her forearms closing the long arms of the shears like an ever-tightening vise. she made a clearing as though she were unblocking her mind, as though she was loosening the hold that the past had on her heart. 220528 what's it to you? who go blather from