Tree Poem

© Tshaka E. Curtis


Every day of every week comes the trees.

One foe that they see makes them scream: Don’t cut me!

The cutter comes with no care,

For he does not hear the screams that fill the air.

Down a small hill covered with dew,

Being watched by trees that know what he'll do.

Finding a tree on the river bank,

He marks with an x the next life he will take.

He marks me with an x and hits me with an ax.

It vexes me to know that everyone is relaxed.

I am hit again.

I pray I will go to heaven.

I cry tears of sap as he takes me down.

If only he could see a tree frown.

He lays me and ties me tightly on a rack,

And again he begins to hack.

No longer do I feel pain, anguish or sorrow.

For I know I will be a chair tomorrow.

Roots gone and branches on the floor,

I am a tree no more.
Tree Poems The Cutter