Tyler Gillespie Credit: Photo by Tom Winchester

This poem is for people who are dating after a long-term relationship—putting themselves out there again, again. Again.

the arborist
by Tyler Gillespie

I’m kind of like f*ck oak trees. Cut them
all down. I say between sips of chai tea.

Because I’m dating again. Because a limb
fell on my grandmother’s roof before Irma.

A man told us the storm would knock
down the diseased tree. Into her yard.
Or the neighbor’s. (Which scared her more).

As a kid I climbed the top. Looked
over a field where oranges once grew.

I loved that tree more than any other

but I knew what we had to do. Made
a decision. Called a “local arborist.”
Only took cash for chainsaw precision.

Irma kissed our coast. Pulleyed branches
floated to earth. He finished & left.

You know the rest. Were there with me,

smoking a cigarette from side of mouth.
We boarded windows. Stocked the pantry.

We had weathered so many of these before.
I thought we’d always find our high ground.

Together. Never thought our tree
would rot. That the wind would be

too much. But now I’m in a coffee shop.
Backtracking on my f*ck trees statement.

Of course, I don’t hate trees. I’m not psycho.
Just a poet & see the danger of what could.

Tyler Gillespie is the author of the poetry collections “Florida Man: Poems, Revisited” (Burrow Press) and “the nature machine!” (Autofocus) as well as the essay collection “The Thing about Florida: Exploring a Misunderstood State” (University Press of Florida). He teaches at Ringling College of Art and Design.

For National Poetry Month, Creative Loafing Tampa Bay asked poets to write about trees—any trees—and they responded.

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