Before You Carry Me Away

by Michelle Wiegers

My long branches lie here, smelling strongly, freshly cut. My splintered self, like so many broken bones, a tangle of yellow-green-brown, in the afternoon sun.

Empty nests hidden in my branches, tumbled down as I fell in thunderous thuds.

Never again to burst forth spring’s green, nor provide respite in summer’s heat. My reds, fallen for the last time, will never feel the warmth of blanketed snow. My seasons have ceased.

It wasn’t old age or decay, nor your own need of heat, but only for the sake of your convenience did you steal, breaking down my beauty into tiny bits of timber,

that tremble in the fading light of my last setting sun.

(Originally appeared in The Wayfarer)