Ugly stumps of splintered agony
the once tall shivering glorious tree
lies in clumps of needled green
as I recall our history.
Grasping dry boughs reaching for me;
scratched my window panes at night
as I sat wide awake and shudd'ring
praying for the morning light.
How the wind howled through those branches!
Casting shadows on my walls
as I muttered nursery rhymes
of rockabyes and babies' falls.
Now the tree is old and dead
I am old now too and still
its decadent and rotting wood
frosts me with a dreadful chill.
I loathe that tree and all its cones
its needles and its twigs and bark
and though it's felled I'm still compelled
to fear its scratching in the dark.
I hear the wind blow through that tree
and know it waits out there for me.