decay not in sight,
yet life lives not,
there was no blood spilled,
yet redness shows,
this is not a happy place,
stop looking at the face,
expecting change,
expecting,
unlimited endurance,
pruners saw blade,
in place,
in relief,
begins
to cut and saw,
away, every branch that is dead died decayed,
on the inside,
with each branch that falls,
tree snow dust from the saw
falls flawlessly,
on the boots and steel toes,
the litany and woes of the tree
about to fall in many parts,
is no different than the man,
with the pruning saw in his hands,
yet one is still alive to live within his means
or to catch and release, his vibrant dreams,
as for the tree,
a stump remains and the roots tap the soil deep,
a legacy,
a slow return to the Earth,
giving back to the engine, the hearth,
that fuels itself,
while fools,
uproot peace of mind,
drinking till they go blind,
spouting toxins and waste,
into their own yard,
good bye tree, your future, your seeds
                                                 are freed,
as your saplings will outlive this man.
You can see, clearly
that with those,
knotted wooden eyes.