Joyce Kilmer was right

I took down a tree today. Cut it down to a stump, corded the wood, set aside the small branches for kindling or chipping.

I felt very studly, wielding chain- and pole-saws, loading the pickup, earning sweat hog status as I soaked through both shirt and hoodie. I showed my inner ‘real man,’ although now having showered and changed to clean clothes, I’m not entirely sure how long it will be before I can overcome inertia again.

The tree really needed to come down. Over the years, it had grown up splitting a hurricane fence as the effects of wind and competition from larger trees forged it into a gnarled, off-kilter runt. But even a runt can be dangerous when you're talking about hardwood.  It reached over the neighbors’ driveway and we were afraid that it was going to fall on their young children, so it had to go.

I know I did the right thing today.

So, someone tell me why I’m so sad to see it go. The tree doesn’t even know it’s dead yet – won’t until it’s time for sap to move in the spring. But I do and I feel guilty for being the agent of its demise.

For me, cutting down a tree is like taking a beloved pet on that final trip to the vet. The fact that it had to happen doesn’t make it enjoyable.