Removing the Giants
By Eillene Leistner
April 15, 2026
April 15, 2026
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heartspur – n. an unexpected surge of emotion in response to a seemingly innocuous trigger – the distinctive squeal of a rusty fence, a key change in an old pop song, the hint of a certain perfume, - which feels all the more intense because you can’t quite pin it down. from heart + spur, a spike on a heel that urges a horse to move forward
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For a long time, we knew they had to come
down, even during Shvat, this month of trees,*
when sacred meals of Israel’s seven grains and
fruits are blessed, tree rings counted, budding
down, even during Shvat, this month of trees,*
when sacred meals of Israel’s seven grains and
fruits are blessed, tree rings counted, budding
saplings are planted in fallow fields.
We took down great wooden giants
that shaped our land and shaded brush
underfoot, golden forsythia, low shrubs,
We took down great wooden giants
that shaped our land and shaded brush
underfoot, golden forsythia, low shrubs,
unpaved gravelly driveway that divided our vista in two.
I thought I was prepared, as I watched them
bring tractors, cranes, chainsaws, chippers,
trucks, and ropes, to our home. But a savage
I thought I was prepared, as I watched them
bring tractors, cranes, chainsaws, chippers,
trucks, and ropes, to our home. But a savage
heartspur flooded me with waves of regret.
No, don’t take down these giants! The great red oak
shielded squirrels and scampering chipmunks,
the hickory tendered its scaly bark to woodpeckers,
No, don’t take down these giants! The great red oak
shielded squirrels and scampering chipmunks,
the hickory tendered its scaly bark to woodpeckers,
a pillar to lean on and a post for our kids play.
With dignity, they stood in the forest’s formation,
still limbs overarching and entwining, trunks
deeply embedded in ground that reluctantly
With dignity, they stood in the forest’s formation,
still limbs overarching and entwining, trunks
deeply embedded in ground that reluctantly
grew new shoots, blanketed by branches and leaves.
Silently, the man in the crane, rose higher,
measuring the distance to what felt like the sky,
he signaled his buddy for the ropes and anchors,
Silently, the man in the crane, rose higher,
measuring the distance to what felt like the sky,
he signaled his buddy for the ropes and anchors,
reached up to wind them around swaying limbs,
tentatively embracing their thick trunks each time,
Slowly, rhythmically, he repeated the steps,
his roaring chainsaw cut wedges at just the right
tentatively embracing their thick trunks each time,
Slowly, rhythmically, he repeated the steps,
his roaring chainsaw cut wedges at just the right
angle, as they brought each tree down,
section by section, felled with patience and respect.
The symphony of cutting was over quickly
and the men soon cleared away logs, stumps,
section by section, felled with patience and respect.
The symphony of cutting was over quickly
and the men soon cleared away logs, stumps,
mounds of sawdust, splinters, and twisted
twigs mixed with the new blanket of snow.
Over the smooth surface of three tree slivers,
I brushed my hand, felt their sap, counted their rings
twigs mixed with the new blanket of snow.
Over the smooth surface of three tree slivers,
I brushed my hand, felt their sap, counted their rings
and swept away my aching heartspur of pain
as winter’s dusk broke with a gleam of light,
above the open space,
where our new home will flourish.
as winter’s dusk broke with a gleam of light,
above the open space,
where our new home will flourish.
* The Jewish month of Shvat, typically in mid-winter, is characterized as the New Year of Trees.
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At different times in her life, poetry was Eillene Leistner’s primary creative expression. With college and graduate degrees in English Literature, Leistner taught writing as well at Hunter College. Three of her poems have been published on the Of the Book website in January, 2026 and she was recognized by Writer’s Digest in 2022 for her poem “Beacon Hill Beach.” Leistner attends poetry classes, and leads poetry groups and readings at her synagogue in New Jersey.
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Author’s Note:
Our country house in the foothills of the Berkshires had always been surrounded by a forest of great trees native to the area, providing us with shade and comfort. After 35 years in our small cape, we planned to expand the house and make room for our growing family of young grandchildren. Much to our dismay, many trees had to come down—some of which were filled with memories and moments from our own children’s youth. When the time came, we brought in skilled and sensitive arborists, who during a snowy day, climbed and cut our trees in a swift dance of respect and dignity. I was pained by our trees removal, but when the sun shone through on the newly opened landscape, I knew we were setting the stage for our home and family to flourish.