Firewood
For two years the oak
loomed, leafless.
We had aged
together, but somehow
I survived the drought
and ice storms, the
regret and wilt,
the explosions within,
and it did not.
I do not know
the rituals of trees,
how they mourn
a passing, or if
the sighs I hear
betray only my own
frailties, but even
as I fuel the saw and
tighten the chain,
I look carefully
for new growth.
“Firewood” is included in my chapbook, From Every Moment a Second.
O at the Edges 
Growth is good😅
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Except for my rapidly expanding waistline. 🙂
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😂😂😂
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Outliving our horses and dogs is disturbing, but when you outlive an established tree: a sure sign of old age…and one cuts with respect.
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Certain trees are like old friends. They’re difficult to let go. And yes, cut with respect. Always.
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A lovely homage, Bob. I know the feeling, and the experience. Hate to pull out the saw.
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I miss certain trees more than others. Oaks are special to me, and there is a favorite mesquite tree on my rural property back in Texas. I’m only just getting acquainted with the local trees here. A few are starting to whisper to me.
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Wish I could know the ritual of trees – how to tell my failing (no, FAILED) live oak goodbye in a way that would convey my reluctance to let go, my gratitude for its years hovering over me.
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Oh, if we only knew!
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