He lumbered the tree as if the splinters of wood
were thorns burnt out from literary roses
ripped out of bible preachings.
He saw the tears spilling out of the roots
and he heard the cries of flowers
reaching out to him and his ax,
praying.
He wore a beard and a mustache
and a coat that had cigarette smoke deeply
interwoven with the fabrics of his sleeves
and he held the ax the way he held his daughters hand
when he walked her down the aisle.
She resembled the leaves that covered the ground
during autumn although her dress
could have been mistaken for the snow
where he used to carve out angels as a child.
He lumbered the tree as memories spewed out
from the perfume of its bark
on swiftly practiced steps towards his back pocket.
And he wished the thumping of his blade
against the silent giant
were knocks on his front door
echoing in his most lonely nights
that were filled with thoughts about her.