When we first moved to this house,

this wild house where everything grows,

we had to prune the trees.

The men started with my favorite

and then hacked away at Leni’s.

Swelling tears of anguish fell down her face,

bees that would no longer appear

before her bedroom window,

our flowers—lilac and yellow—

vanished.

They will grow back, I reassured her

on a walk to the store,

but the branch bodies stacked on the ground

were still too green for there to be anything

other than shock.

On the way home, she traced the tops of the trees

with her fingertip, began to jump

between the cracks in the sidewalk,

worry wading away from her.

I am calm now, she said

when we reached the door.

Another year will stop before us,

bring with it the need to prepare:

the storms arrive as always

in February and March,

envelop the city in desolate revelation.

Pruned or not,

the leaves will fall.

And when they do, I say, look,

they change color

as they flip over in the air.

And Leni says,

I know, mom,

I am looking.

They are butterflies,

and dragon fire,

and fat flakes of snow.

Mackenzie Levitan has been living in Buenos Aires since 2013. She holds a Bachelor’s from Bard College and an MFA from la Universidad Tres de Febrero. She writes poetry and nonfiction in English and Spanish and has published in the magazine Aquilea. She is currently completing her first full-length collection of poetry in English.