O you honeysuckle 
crown of the branch 
such a delicate flower.
How you clutch tight
small maples. To choke,
that very simple power.
Their smooth trunks bulge
like the eyes of skinny 
frogs. Death is your canopy.
Gloved, my fingers flit at
the paper feathers that
hide a matchstick brand.
The deep ruts of growth
clutch and tug gently firm.
Unwound quietly by hand.
A quiet dappled thicket 
of slow perfect slaughter.
Time turns a slow spiral.
O honeysuckle, sweet
is the sound of your long root
tearing from the ground.