The sin of invasive roots is irredeemable.  Limb by limb,
my Silver Maple comes down.  Chainsaws slice
the quiet morning like a death knell,
their surgical precision carving
my front yard bare.  Years of abundant shade
and seasonal fanfare is being erased
in a flash of metal and indifferent ruin.

And I feel like a traitor, skulking 
inside my house where the high-pitched whine
of destruction is muted, less accusatory;
where I mourn, as emptied
as the treeless space.