The roots are large, splaying out to the other trees near it. The leaves are dark green, the color of ferns and moss. It stands tall and proud as if asking the world to come and cut it down. No one has yet. 
  Black ants march dutifully up and down the trunk, and birds have created little nests on its wide branches. Owls perch in its depths during the night, squirrels jump from it during the day. 
  It's a tree of life, but a tree of death.   My brother went off to war about two years ago. I won't say which war—it's not important. Sometimes I see his shadow in the hallways of our house, and other times I feel I can hear his voice. But of course I can't. Because he's across the ocean in some strange nation while I'm stuck here, stuck in a tiny house at the edge of a big forest. 
  I say it's the tree's fault my brother decided to leave. And it really is. 

I didn't feel 
anything about the
tree
until I lost it 
til the bark cracked
like glow sticks at dusk
and the cherry blossoms
smeared over the axe
like stickers on my cheek
the dew still holding to the leaves
glowed like wounded lighting bugs
on the heavy metal blade
and the lifting of the axe
like the bat I once raised to 
swing at the piñata hanging
from a branch
and it falls again 
and again
and again
like the steady
rhythm of my pogo stick
on the concrete
and again 
and again
til the tree lays on the ground
and moss supports its head
like a new born baby
and flowers bloom around the stump 
like a funeral
and blossoms still unfold 
on the farthest branches
like nothing has happened
and forever is over
I say goodbye to you
cherry tree again
and again 
and again