I have noticed that some people cannot meander
through a forest without imagining a saw.

A tree spends decades becoming itself.
Drawing water upward.

Holding nests. Making shade. Growing toward
more and more light. Then someone arrives

with a tape measure. A plan. An insecurity.

And suddenly the tree is evaluated
for other purposes. Could this be lumber?

Could this be firewood? Could this become
something smaller and more useful?

Could we have a better view?

I’ve had lovers who spoke about me
this way. Not directly. No one says:

I am intimidated by your height.
Your athleticism. Your joy.

Your intelligence. The way you belong
in so many different rooms.

Instead they find the nearest axe.
A joke made in public. A correction

offered unnecessarily. A story retold
with the important parts

removed. A sentence started
and purposefully not

finished. A slow and careful
reduction. Until they are standing

on the stump
feeling taller.

I used to think it was for me
to explain. To prove

I was not a threat. To shrink the canopy.
To apologize for the shade.

Even after the cut, trees send up shoots
from roots. They insist.

I don’t have space for anyone
who needs me smaller

to feel safe. Or quieter to feel wise.
Or colder to feel warm. Or broken apart

to feed a fire that never seems
to survive the night.

I was making shade for us.