Pruning   He’s out there again with his pruning shears, pruning. What is it this time — the hydrangea? The lilac? We say hello; he hears nothing — or so he pretends. And the strange thing is, he’s always out there, trimming, lopping, pruning — he lives for this. It’s a wonder there’s anything left to prune, no stopping the sundering secateurs, no fun in trees like limbless torsos, bushes hacked to their skeletal essence, the relentless snip and snap of life cut short. He acts so cool behind those mirror shades. He’s bent over a wraithlike rose, pruning. We see our SUVs momentarily reflected as we roll home with more from the mall — he, meanwhile, Mr. Arboreal Anorectic, has been busily pruning up a storm. Does he think we fear his terrible blades, his spirit of drastic reduction, formal austerity? We hate those goddamn shades.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont July 2012