I looked her in the eye And told her to slowly die.
Asked her stiffened branches To drop with a jilt, Onto the over-exposed leaves That dry and wilt.
She stands there stubborn, Not ready to go; I take an axe And it hits her with a blow.
She staggers, But stays upright, Proud of her withering bark, Where rough winds made her uptight.
She is not routine. When she braved the storms, Her branches danced, Her leaves smiled with warmth. Then a touch would have comforted her. Now there is nothing to be saved from falling apart.
I light a match And gently bring it to where she has dried. I put her to peace, So that the land can again be free and wide.
I ready saplings for fresh plantation. It will grow stronger on manure – Which is built from benevolent leftovers Of the previous residents’ endure.