Gnarled and misshapen,
weathered by living.
Lightning scorched and hollowed.
Pierced with initials.
It hangs low, arms in surrender to fierce winds.
Torrential rains have skinned it to the bones.
A textured face is now slick without character.
Midway, an orange tag signals REMOVE BY: a date follows.
A mere two words terminate life.
No reprieve, no appeal, no mercy —
just demolition.
Was there no objection or another solution?
My accusers — the planners say, it’s just an old tree.
“It’s in the way.”
I am old, but I still have a purpose. My gifts are free —
branches for nests, rest for flight weary birds.
Lover’s initials remain.
In my youth, I served as a billboard for lover’s,
never flinching as they carved
hearts with initials into my bark.
Soon their names will disappear with me.
