The Tree

A rusty old axe bites and claws at my base,

I splinter and split as I welcome my fate.

But the truth is I am not yet quite ready to fall,

Not ready to leave the strong earth or the gentle sky.

I am not yet tired of the firm embrace of warm soil,

Nor of kisses ghosted across my leaves by the changeable wind.

I have not yet cradled enough nests in my dependable arms,

Nor warmed enough creatures, housed protected in my core.

But I splinter and split and I welcome my fate. 

For if my boughs must be brought down to earth from the heavens,

My skyward arms defeated and my roots torn from the ground,

I can only hope my life is enough to satisfy the beast. 

I can only pray the sharp axe moves on, leaving my young alive,

Safe in the tender heart of the earth, hidden by the messes of the wind.

If I must die, I hope they may grow tall and proud,

Feel the warm soil anchor their strong roots,

And the changeable wind dance with their leaves. 

I hope they cradle many nests in their skyward arms,

And warm many creatures, housed and protected in their core. 

If I must die for them to grow and live,

I shall splinter and split and welcome it.

The axe bites and claws and does not stall,

So with a hope and a sigh, I allow myself to fall.