They murdered my favorite tree today,
Whose roots I used to rest on—
Chained it, sawed it, and hacked it to pieces—
Then dumped its remains on the lawn.

They all stand there now, big hulking men,
With their boots and their cigarette butts—
Stand with their leaf blowers, erasing the crime,
And filling the air with the sawdust.

Sawdust is the tree’s blood, you know,
Spattered all over the ground—
It fills nearby bushes that lament for the tree,
For the tree now cannot make a sound.

Nevermore will it rustle or sway in the wind,
Or stand, stark and still, with the weight of the bloodless snow—
Nevermore will the bark give that hollow earthy sound
As a squirrel returns to the home it used to know.

It didn’t have a chance, that poor aging tree—
So sedate, and alive, and knowing of old—
And thus in its wisdom it must have known this
Day would come, and away its stump would be rolled.

But, as if just killing it did not suffice,
The men had to return with their trailers—
The ones labeled “Tree Care” and towing the chipper—
They surrounded their victim like jailors.

With merciless muscular arms they shoved it
Into that sputtering machine,
And I listened to its screams as that dumb, hungry thing
Devoured the evidence of the crime scene.

And so this beautiful, gentle creature of my childhood
Was chewed to lifeless bits—
Its velvety moss digested, its lovely arms arrested—
Yet that boss his men acquits.

The sky now opens, empty and barren,
Where my retired friend once stood—
The sunlight will never again pattern the carpet
As through the Tree’s branches it would.