The hatchet forgets,
but the tree remembers.

The hatchet is busy.
The hatchet has its own share of scars,
marred by the mishaps and mistakes
of a clumsy handler.

The hatchet remembers collisions.
It remembers that it won most of them,
and the ones it didn’t left minor scratches.
It still has work to do.

The hatchet doesn’t know about the tree.
It knows the feeling of victory, or
perhaps soreness after a tough won fight.
It doesn’t even think itself sharp,
let alone dangerous to a mighty tree.

The tree has nothing to do but remember.
It was left in the field as a stump,
cut down to size but still living,
green saplings springing from the old wood.
It has years to grow around the wound.

The tree had been growing for years before.
It was tall and proud and strong,
and then the hatchet came with brutal blows
and a wicked edge that chipped away
until the tree was nothing of itself anymore.

The tree does not grow as it did.
It regrows awkward and curled around the stump,
hunched down to protect itself, twisted
into some strange shape it does not know,
but that might repel some unknown future axe.