For thirty years, you drank sunlight from the sky, sucked water from the earth, and turned a tiny seed into a towering giant. Your leaves cast cool shadows all summer long, and winter lulled you into a fitful sleep year in, year out. When the chainsaw bit through your side, your own weight dragged thirty years down to the dying leaves you shed. I’ll cut you into pieces now and shove you in my stove. I’ll set a match to kindling, knowing that you can’t resist the lure of yellow flame; the compulsion to become the same; to shine and decay and fade quickly away into nothing but ash. Soon the only thing left to be forgotten will be heat and light, falling quickly apart growing dim in the darkness, scattering, lost throughout the universe.
- November News