The Red Maple

Gentleness of this day wraps around my being, 

cradling my pale nerves to a still entity, 

though I know my hands are trembling; regret, fleeing

from my once noble conscience, losing lenity.

I admire this tree that stands before me, gleaming

radiant with wisdom as it towers above.

I have swung from its branches and climbed to its top;

this tree gave me fun times and kept me beaming.

It allowed me to sit upon the world, with love

how could I ever take that away, make it stop?

I have read books at its roots 

and have carved hearts in its bark.

Nightly, I sleep to its owl’s hoots;

they befriend it in the dark.

This tree has grown its origin into my heart;

its branches have supported my weak tendencies.

Its leaves pop with spirit in the time of autumn;

its peak is engorged by a light blue, piece of art,

its twists and knots are not signs of decadency,

they’re embraced; its personality is awesome.

I gaze on the way my hands are holding this axe

as I chop it all away; what I care for is 

leaning. It’s hard to slice through a tree

when its trunk is so dense. 

It screams as it falls until it meets the cold ground.

Crimson leaves say a final word in disbelief;

then all is silent.

The breeze will carry my whisper 

around its stump;

“I'm sorry.”