The Yew Tree

When the tree roots break the ground we light the forges.
It takes time to gather the ore, make it fit for the work, and the sweat on our backs comes long before the heat.
Old chains seize when the Calling starts. It takes fresh metal, its memories still bitter with dirt, to hold against that worst of singing. Not to shatter, at the sound of desire.
But, were death a lover, he would not be beautiful. I have lived in these halls all my life and I know it’s comfort that stalks our forests, not thrill. Ease comes in with those first, sweet, murmurs; a rest that stills the heart, instead of stirring.
I feel it drawing on me, now: a ripple of air to cool the panic on my brow.

By the time I raise my hammer, the urgency has left my chest. But, still, I strike. I fold and strike and temper until it’s done.
My family walks the hill, the chain between us. Fear sends us out together to share this trifling weight. Too many mornings with one less in their bed. Too many ropes shivering on their boughs, each ragged end a sighed goodbye.
Though my sister heard the tree waking, I’m the one who made the bind. With her nod, I set the fresh iron cuff around the rising limb. I drive the stake through its links to tether it with the ground and when the root is shackled, the Calling stops. We wait and hear sweet words retreating. Death, drawing back to its shadows.
And I weep.