It doesn’t matter.
You think it does. You know you want it to. It might to you.
Does that matter?
Are you sure it matters? Really sure? Because your brain, it lies. It doesn’t see what’s good and only screams what’s bad again
Maybe it’s not that bad.
Bet it’s not. Bet it’s nothing.
Maybe you’re looking at black bark and knowing there are maggots and mold inside, instead of seeing the beauty of the tree.
The crimson leaves. The cool shade. The good. There’s good there. You can see it.
There might not be breaking at every branch.
Shut up and stop swing your saw and digging teeth into everything growing around you.
Cut it down, dig it up and you’ll be picnicing alone on parched earth, yellow grass and snakeskins for company.
Not the worst, if the food still makes you smile.
What if you can’t shut up?
What if your arms are swinging the ax and your throat is raw from ear cries, fighting to get to the core of what you planted with those same arms?
What if you can’t sleep, can’t rest, can’t stop until you know what’s buried?
And your shoulders quiver and your eyes sting with sweat and the tears can’t cool the burn-
Keep wanting the leaves and the beauty. Get a spade and turn over the weeds.
If you want to sit under that tree so much.
Unless you can’t.
Until every twig and bough
bends and threatens to upend.
If it’s quiet, and it’s firm in its roots,
and will not shuffle loose,
scream one last time.