irish_yew ovenbird In the far back corner of my garden stands an Irish Yew, its needled arms like living intrusive thoughts, its woven branches a memento mori that sings in a voice forever offering death. I did not know, when I bought it, that every part of the Irish Yew, except the bright red flesh of the berries, is deadly in even small quantities. And once I discovered that I owned a tree implicated in countless suicides, it was too well established to safely remove and I feared that disturbing it might scatter deadly debris all over my yard, to be consumed by my dog in a soul destroying tragedy. So I leave it standing and hope its murderous magnetism doesn’t accidentally enchant my brain into taking a bite. Each morning when I go to the yard to let my dog out, I come face to face with the Irish Yew. Each morning it says, in the gentlest way, “you could end everything, you know.” And every morning I search my own heart and say, with as much respect as I can conjure, “thank you for the offer, but it seems that today I would like to live” and then I go to see what living I can do. 250514 what's it to you? who go blather from