by my window, a fir tree didn't know that
we cut off a branch. the gleeful hum of

a chainsaw in a cherry picker droned
with the rhythm of an obnoxious dirge.

the branch popped off like a lego cowboy's
arm and hit the ground with a thud, like a sack

of potatoes or a coconut. the fir tree didn't
feel as sweet honey poured like blood

from its armpit. the only first aid was the heat
from the spinning blade that cauterized the wound

and sticky sap, a bandaid of resin. the pine cones
didn't know that their brothers and sisters fell with the branch.

a fir tree by my window still tries to scratch at the pane
during windstorms. but this device of Edgar Allen's

got chopped off. if this fir tree stays drunk on its
honeyed blood, it won't notice that it has lost an arm and it

will stay strong and merry, so that we can
chop it down and dress it up for christmas.