Tribute to Tree

The storm took her down, for she was not willing. This is a big sturdy maple no more. My father and I examined her many limbs, then with our surgical tools, cut apart.

The axe I swung, mighty but deceiving, a couple of times, the axe bounced right back. I was sweating and heaving til evening, ravens just watching, snow on the ground. The stubborn grain had to be approached precisely, so I focused intently on the centre of the block. Crack! The fibers split! Ease all the tension! When the knot is so tight, there can be nothing more grand. I satisfy myself getting wedged right between it. Off it creaks, like the vampire's coffin door.

Split Siamese twins, only the tree feels nothing. Her skin has long ago ceased to wear her like a coat. Peeling so easy, like the dress off a stripper, my red maul, flashing: mad blur in the air.

Now it sits halfwise. Now it lays helpless. This is the great dieretic undoing. I am now staring at nature's own neurons, cells shocked by actions, abused, dumb and lame. I stop to marvel at the beautiful patterns, creases: the wrinkles of calculable time!
I feel degraded for how I've destroyed it, yet I know purpose by packing the pile. Look at its sad face. Oh how it's humbled! Nothing left for it, 'cept into the fire. The tall figures haunt me. The forest is judging. What can I say that will lessen the blame? "Murder it wasn't. The weather was raging. I did not do it. The wind was who did! I say the tree has now come to fruition. What it can't say now is writ in these lines."

"This was no cruel vivisection," I whispered through their torsos.

Filed under Poetry

@Copyright 2005 Sirbarrett