felled the hawthorn.
All furred in crystal, everywhere
the extravagant declaration of ice. 

Over the carcass roamed
my ungloved palm. 
My tender, curious fingers.

Nevertheless,
in the months that passed,
the earth warmed. 

The neighbors inquired politely
if I would ever get rid of that dead tree,
it was an eyesore, really a menace. 

I didn’t oil the chain saw, I didn’t hack away
the crown of branches. 
Refusal, my life. 

Occasionally I dreamed of a bonfire.
Like Savonarola, I concluded
the only way to purify was to burn. 

Lighter fluid. Limbs woven
over kindling. I could see it. 
The possibility of a brilliant end. 

My chapped hands laid
a circle of stones
to witch the flames. 

But a wet spring came upon us,
and my dreams went dark,
after which I learned there are several methods

for disposing of the dead.