“This piece is about an old tree I have had in my backyard since I was a child. Nowadays, the tree is old and withered and is becoming difficult to maintain. This old oak made me think a lot about the connections in my life during a transitional period, and I hope it has the same result for anyone else who reads this poem.”
A tree grows in whatever pattern you tell it to.
They are shaped by the wires and sheets we surround them by.
We can limit their height or let them scrape the sky,
but the inevitable is that all trees wither and die.
We hold on to the old oaks as long as possible,
but eventually, branches begin to fall.
Leaves stray from those branches until the tree spreads across the yard,
each leaf on a new journey, separate from that of their predecessor,
a special experience catered to each leaf.
But what of the trunk,
the wood that held those leaves in one, universal home?
Well, it dies.
Trees become dangerous when they die.
Keeping them around can be harmful to you and others.
The best course of action?
Cut
It
Down
