Heartwood

By Eric Roy

When the old pecan lost a heavy limb

after the storm, nearly hitting the propane

tank beside the house, I knew it had to go.

But I did not call an arborist until I’d already

cut it down & looked inside. “Heart Rot”

she told me, soon as she saw the stump.

The fungus had eaten away the heartwood

all the way up through the tree. Only a

matter of time, she said. Sure, I understood,

but it made me think of things I hadn’t

thought of for a while, looking at the large,

wide stump with emptiness at its core.

Only a matter of time, I finally agreed.

She said, You avoided potential disaster there.

I hadn’t, but the house & tank might have.

I asked AI a question on the laptop later,

but all I got back was what I already knew:

Rot begins through wounds in the bark,

insect or animal damage, improper pruning,

dead or broken branches from previous storms

previous storms previous storms previous storms

—what years have a hurricane shared your name?

Next day I filled the hole in the stump with a

bag of potting soil we never wound up using.

Then I bought some Black-Eyed Susans

& introduced them to their new home.

About the Author

Eric Roy's chapbook All Small Planes (Lily Poetry Press 2021) was nominated for Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions prizes for its hybrid work. New poems are forthcoming at Bear Review, Post Road, and Ursula. Recent work can be found at Bennington Review, Fence, The Iowa Review, Ploughshares and elsewhere. A former coach, cook and teacher, Eric Roy now sells old good things in Carmine, Texas (pop. 244).