When I was young, I cut the bigger, older trees for firewood, the
ones
with heart rot, dead and broken branches, the crippled and
deformed
ones, because, I reasoned, they were going to fall soon anyway,
and
therefore, I should give the younger trees more light and room
to grow.
Now I'm older and I cut the younger, strong and sturdy, solid
and beautiful trees, and I let the older ones have a few more
years
of light and water and leaf in the forest they have known so
long.
Soon enough they will be prostrate on the ground.
David Budbill, While We've Still Got Feet (Copper Canyon Press, 2005)
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