Falling Oak
-Joy S. Barefoot
I felt a sadness
at the falling
of the oak;
the persistent growling
of the saw;
hammer ringing
at the wedge;
wrench grinding
against
a great force.
I felt a sadness
at that creaking groan
ripping
at its fibers
and the trembling earth
beneath its fall.
I felt a sadness
at that fresh cut
ring of years,
left to grieve its loss;
a sort of euthenasia,
laying down
to still the worms
ingesting
red oak heart . . . .
