deforestation

Death knell

Logging crews turn forests into graveyards
of tree stump tombstones, their markers
nameless and imperfect, tilted and broken
among the barren and brown landscape
dozer tread-tracked earth and splintered
discarded limbs left to gray and decay
like scattered remains of bombing victims
in a war-zone they once called their home.

So much for the soft serenity found in footsteps
among the shed and yellowed pine needles,
so much for intermittent shadows
and the disorienting pleasures of an upward gaze
through many-fingered flora filtering light
like so many interwoven DNA strands
building their ladders to the sun.

Best to keep driving until the madness subsides
and the silence returns its dopamine rush,
the rarity of a woodland left mostly untouched
where you can spend an hour
collecting images for a poem here or there,
crouched beside a creek bed
listening to water trickle down stair step stones
and through root-channeled harpsichord hands
playing the songs of calming quiet.

I’m here among the foot-trampled paths,
the over-grown fanning ferns
and the hidden heartbeats that scamper
before they can be seen
through the underbrush,
but I am also there
in the graveyard, my fingertips tracing
the concentric rings of the fallen,
asking forgiveness and permission
for a fate that takes
the same toll in all things,
its pace quickening.

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