A healthy maple outside my condominium
is being cut down. Perhaps it’s not
the sharp wind rattling its arms,
but outrage at the chain saw killer,
screeching at 120 decibels. If the tree
had legs, it would run away.

Who can say the maple doesn’t feel pain
as limbs are sliced off and stump ground
into sawdust? I think about its cousins
in the woods that eat nails to give us
maple syrup until it can’t sugar anymore,
then the saw.

How do I mourn this giant neighbor
yet open my eyes to the grave-flowers
of bright yellow petunias, like sundrops,
ready to be planted on top of its remains?