A Man and His Tree
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
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
