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Armed with chainsaws in the field, two young men are shirtless guests
with shoulders bronzed by sun and sweat.
The timbre in the August sun has scattered birds and stirred unrest

   The tree they'll slay has leaves of gold, 
   lacing branches frail and old,   - but now its time is spent

Rising from his afghan nest, a man peers out the window glass
to witness as the death unfolds.   
As one who brought the seedling home, he waits to see the giant fall
He holds his breath, but not his tears.  Age and illness hems the years.

And just as earth might moan in pain, the tree comes tumbling down

There was a day, not long before, ....before his war began                     
Back then he could lift a saw like that, ..hold it skillfully, carefully, casually
Angle down, - angle up, - cut a wedge, - hear it crack

Now there's pathos in dust-driven clouds
that shadows an earth that has lost its sun
It trembles now to catch its breath.
And branch by branch it lays to rest the leaves of courage, a golden crest,
that was shelter, home, a fortress blessed, a place to lean to find solace

A tree, ...  nor a man cannot be defined 
by disease, confinement, by age or time

A tree falls down.  It is nature's plan
to open the field, while clearing the land
What came before, grows new today,
The void that's left cannot be filled,
and tears we shed cannot be stilled

His leave will make a louder sound
The dust will rise.  Trees burn to ash
What matters most is never lost

Oh yes,  how it shatters the fragile heart!
Oh God, how it matters, how could it not?

- But, the man and the tree have earned a rest                                               
____________________________________________________________
6/6/17

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