Giant Cedar This is not a forest, but a lawn Your dogged sapling sits upon This gift transplanted from a grove where we once camped, now, alone in its ribbon-clad pot, its baby roots contained in the dark earth. At first it won’t overwhelm, but planted in the yard, it will insist, like a child insists on outgrowing her shoes: swelling toes pushing out the feckless suede. Its roots will spread beneath the house, compromise the basement, Its thick foliage will block out the sun, It will starve the garden. The potted cedar will not survive, refused its growth in the earth, or the straightforward truth of a cull. For now, it stands stunted beside the lilies. If this were an empty lot maybe the cedar could grow but even then the walnut tree from next door would encroach. Never mind, your gift would swallow the house, the child, the dog whole. No, it cannot co-exist. It is devastatingly easy to dispose of; its dirt falls through my fingers, its delicate roots dangle, its brown needles crumble into the rich humus of the compost bin. I turn away to sew the carrots and peas. Eventually, I lift a shovel of rich earth and cover the seeds.