Spell for a widow-maker

Snag turned deadfall, dread widow-maker with your fag-ends caught in the crotch of a living tree, hold fast while the chainsaw gnaws through your limb, don’t pinch the bar in your haste to get free, but as soon as the uppercut meets the undercut, drop straight, don’t twist or kick. Sink into the soft mulch of your many autumns, the bed you made for just this final fall.