The Cutter

The feelings of a tree as it learns to accept its purpose in the world.

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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.

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