We chopped down three old maple trees today.
They made my house a pastoral retreat;
Now here it stands, all naked to the street.
My wife says, "They were in the way.
Remember how you hated raking leaves?
The branches were so gnarled; and every time
You mowed, you cursed the absence of sunshine."
I seem to be the only one who grieves.
"You won't miss all those squirrels, that's for sure;
They'd leap, then skitter down the shed roof's tilt.
And in the summer, think of all those bees --
We had no peace."
This carnage is no cure.
My conscience plays arpeggios of guilt,
Accusing me of murdering my trees.

Poetry Magazine