Cruel hands yank me from my cosy cradle of earth,
Unkind, weathered fingers rip and tear my fragile leaves.
I am young, I am cold and I am scared,
But overall, I am glad it is me.
Never will I feel the playful wind dancing with my leaves,
Nor the warm soil tether my strong roots to the ground,
As I reach for the heavens.
I know nothing of the beauty of the world.
Not the tender heat of the sun on my bark,
Nor the refreshing cool of the rain trickling through my boughs.
Yet my mother knows all of this and more.
So I will give it all up, though the pain of the loss is deep.
For how can I miss the things that never belonged to me?
And so if it takes my sacrifice to keep her standing tall,
I am glad it is me.
I can’t help but imagine how mighty I may have been,
How deep my reliable roots may have reached,
How high my adventurous branches may have climbed,
If cruel, grasping hands and sharp tools that bite
Had not uprooted me and stolen me from my mother’s side.
I am young, I am cold, and I am scared.
I am alone, I am dying, but I am glad.
Though I am now nought but kindling,
To keep her standing I gave all I had.