Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Mimi-Mona Poetry: The Butcher

©The Butcher
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

It cried, it screamed
Barely audible sounds
Above those of
Its cruel abuser
It was pain unexpected
No way to protect itself
Blood and tears streamed
From its wounds
Stubs left pruned all
The way to and
Flush with its main trunk
Its protective arms
Worry now for
Its inability to promote
Proper callous tissue
To form and seal
Its many wounds
And for the potential of
Disease and decay
Haphazard butchery
Amateur Hour at its worse
Doesn't the inexperienced
Aborist know
Lower branches help promote
Proper trunk tapering
And makes for a
Stronger tree

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