Respect for the Fallen

by Russell Rowland

Removing a tree from the trail
up Faraway Mountain—with bowsaw, heaves,
and porcine grunts—

I fell short of the reverent attitude
of morticians, or officiants at the cemetery.

This was an end-of-life issue, after all.

Deciduous and coniferous neighbors stood by
with bowed heads.

A bit more sun would reach the forest floor,
if that was any comfort.

I noticed a white pine nearby weep sap,

and when I stopped being noisy for a moment,
saw reason for tears—

the fallen oak had just begun putting out buds,
light green (it was early May),
prepared to dress for another springtime,

when a wind blew, and the end came.