When I was a Birch Tree

I scaled the side
of the highest hill
holding fast with roots

a standout in a sea of green –
from spruce to willow
and poplar to a few scattered
cedar---I was more than
a fist with iron in
my demeanor –
a moose in the forest.

Then someone came and cut
me down---in the mirror of their
weakness. A hiker
cold and alone.
He chopped me in smaller
pieces into kindling. Now I am
a fire ball of warmth.

© Richard L. Provencher