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.
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.