Sweet Nothings to a Sycamore

I whisper sweet nothings to you because I was your end.

You were to be so tall the sky couldn't hold you in.

I shave down your defenses and meld your flesh how I want it.

Never once do I regret felling you or your brother.

You were too close to my home and far too mighty.

You threatened the integrity of where I rest my head.

I craft you with my hands and let mother nature have no say.

Your brother was larger than you and went down the same way.

I will meld him into planks for which I'll walk upon and I'll use you to hold me up.

I'll burn your branches and leaves, use your trunk as practice and your lower third for stability.

Your roots I still have to dig up but they will be my center piece at family dinners.

I whisper sweet nothings to you because I cut you down before your prime.

You will never reach a hundred feet because of my actions.

You and your brother and the dozen others I removed are no more than a footnote, a fire starter, a cane for your killer.

I cut you down with a saw far too small.

I laughed as you hit the ground, shared no remorse as I took you apart.

You will be shaped and cherished in a new form.

But for now I whisper sweet nothings to you a Sycamore.