They do not go easy into the ground.
They scream
when taken before their time.
They scream
when the robots shove them down,
yellow cowards.
They scream
when the circles they have taken pains
to grow crack into weed-disappearing flakes,
as wanted as coffee ground-dotted shells
of eggs opened only to prove to be fertile
and sprayed down the drain with an ugh. They scream
when their bark rips to shreds.
They scream
for those whose lives they have saved
by spreading their boughs
and leafing over. They scream
for the lives that will not be
because they were not allowed to feed
with sides of words to wise and unwise. They scream
because they see horrendous storms
they won’t be around to prevent
or help soften.  Holding my ears, I run
to my car. When I come back,
the last lies dead. My screams
went unheard, and they were felled.
Fell in each others' arms, broken across land
behind another place belonging to none
but the frustrated Maker and Guard who designed
and made trees Progress just went and gouged.
Mashed/remashed to splinter thorned blood.  I scream
for all it helps for the trees, the trees,
for the tree--. . .

 

(c) Phyllis Jean Green, January, 2005 -- All Rights Reserved