its arm bled leaves. an orphaned
stub remained, stoic, silent.
the worker wielded a long blade
expertly, sawing at bone; dust
and sound of blunt metal on wood
flecked onto lifeless leaves.
I saw the whole row of them
standing in line, waiting for execution,
by the metal fence. on the other side,
infant shrubs watched listlessly.
we draw lines with surgical precision
dividing organ and waste, yours and ours,
cutting flesh and soul to which
none of us belong.