He’s 30 feet up, a spike
on the bottom of each boot
plunged into the slender
trunk curving toward

the ocean, a yellow umbilical
cord around his middle
binding him to this
elder statesman.

A slender U, the tree
trimmer bends like a bow,
intently studying, like any
good sculptor, what needs

to be removed to reveal
the essence of palm.
The coconuts must go,
of course, this being

a public area where
clueless tourists wander.
At any moment clumps
of perfectly good nuts

can fall with a whump!
to the grass below. I
watch from a respectful
distance, my neck craned,

as the sculptor releases
a frond, then the machete,
which bounces, then dangles
from a rope around

his waist like a forgotten
appendage. How must
it feel to shape a living
being at such a height?

How to know what to
take and what to leave?
What does it mean
to spend years in

such precarious
circumstances, caring
for long-lived elders,
keeping them tidy,

checking to make
sure that they have
what they need—
at least for now?