The pine martin watches,
the wren takes flight,
as men circle ‘round
and the cutting begins.

When it is finished, her rings
Will tell the story – if anyone
stops to look. Some parts
dark and heavy, others soft,
almost silver in the light.

The measure of her final age
as a tree, the last bit of herself
left behind before she becomes
something new – a door, a table
a bench, a boat. I wonder why

when we walk into a home,
we do not admire the door,
caress her as we pass,
remembering the oak –
and how to be grateful
for what she keeps out
and who she allows in.

Why we do not ask the table,
before we gather around her,
how tall she used to be
when she was a pine, and if
the food we expect her to hold
is to her liking?

Why don’t we sit more carefully
on benches? Place ourselves
like so many babies in their cradles,
laid gently for a rest, knowing
we are fortunate to be held.

Why do we not marvel at the boat?
How she glides across water – carrying,
when once she was her own
rooted thing, immovable and reaching.

Nichole Brazelton has an MA in Philosophy of Communication and Rhetoric from Duquesne University and an MFA in poetry from New England College. Her creative works focus primarily on the rhetorical and narrative constructions of birth and motherhood across literary genres. Her poems have been anthologized in Beautiful Cadaver Project, and Voices From the Attic. And her most recent creative works appear (or are forthcoming) in Canary, Sisyphus, and Sand Hills Literary Magazine.