The Tree

The tree had lived forty years
Through summer wind, winter snow
Once supple, green; with the breeze it swayed
Now rigid, gray; to sandy soil it clung

The elderly logger tied a line twenty feet up
Pulled taught by he and a neighbor
A young forester cut a wedge into the trunk,
Lining up the fall

To the north a cabin
To the south power lines
To the west a shed
To the east a clear path

The forester gave his command
His chainsaw dug into the tree
It creaked, moaned; leaned to the South
Logger ran to the north, neighbor in tow
Tension on the line as they moved
It was enough
Cloud of dust as the tree hit the ground

The tree once stood hard against the wind
Now stacked in a pile; fuel for a fire
Returned to ash

3 thoughts on “The Tree

  1. shoreacres

    I couldn’t help thinking of the irony, had the tree been an ash. Then, the phrase could have been “ash to ashes, into the dust.”

    I think even for the most grounded nature lover, coming to terms with the truth that all living things have a natural life span is difficult. I shed a few tears once over a cactus that just had come to the end. Cycles, and more cycles.

    Reply

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