Next Tuesday they will come
With spikes and chains and saws,
And corporate authority.
They will behead you,
Slice away your shriveled limbs,
Guide your trunk
Into the empty spot
Between my house and shed.
They will shred your branches
Into new, sustainable adventures,
Sweep and blow away from me
Your familiar, scented needles.
You were a seedling when I saw you first,
Almost thirty years ago.
You grew bold and tall and spread your wings.
You shaded friends and teddy bears,
Entertained feral cats, raccoons, and skunks,
Allowed squirrels to roam freely,
In joyful leaps and calculated chase.
Your crown was the kingdom of the mockingbird.
And when all was quiet
On sunny Sunday afternoons,
I watched my mother floating past you.
She wore a purple gown.
But in recent months
You turned sullen - pale and brittle;
You missed the rain.
Or, maybe, you were just done with tree life.
I am afraid of you,
The way one is afraid of lovers
Whose souls refuse us harmony.
I no longer seek my bed
When dry winds storm.
They make you sway in desperation.
Tschüss dear pine tree on the hill behind my house;
I hope they chip you into happy little pieces.
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