I got back just in time to hear you fall.
I knew it was you.
I couldn’t go up there for at least a week.
A sickening crack before the earth shook.
I get up the courage and go up to where you have always been. And there you are. Ruptured. Parceled.
Your absence is a wound that will soon be hidden.
I know. I know. Progress. Development.
I count your age as best I can. Your life crossed out by the gnashings of the blade. At least 100. You had stood here long before the instrument of your murder’s invention.
I climb on top of the you I have leaned against for decades. When I stopped to greet you and looked at eternity through your branches, my cheek against your bark, breathing in birth-death. Life.
I have no desire to ever leave.
Softness whispers through those who remain. The small ones. The undesirables. The not yets.
I hope there was at least a shiver of something buried in his heart as he cut through yours.
Thank you. Beauty.
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