With a huge wound
in its bark
a ragged foot high, uncovering
half of its circumference,
the whiteness of the hundred year old maple tree
cried out like a Nun stripped naked
in a witch hunt.
It started innocently,
putting a sap spigot in the big tree in our front yard.
Then it was another personality
that started whacking bark
wielding my red handled hatchet
at the huge black trunk
with a malicious intent
I knew nothing of, had no emotional attachment.
I could only watch.
Like a dream where the central character
is you: killing people, stealing babies, setting fires.
No, No, it is not you.
It really wasn’t me,
I pleaded to my Father
as he silently drew out his belt.