by Arthur Kayzakian
Leaning down on its roots, the stem
I see of a wounded tree.
Seven coated lumberjacks, surrounding
with axes, chopping at the bark
for homes, shelter, paper, money.
Bowing by the neck, how the larch
screams beneath the blades.
What will the neighbors say?
A landscape stretched with forest.
Branches spread out as open arms,
on each living a family of leaves.
Trees understand why we carve
their bearded skin, they’re the oldest
living things on earth.
I suspect that trees take pride
in being the true artisans
of the casket. Knowing more about
less makes us the least of what is
already here. By end life, we
will know as much
Last updated June 15, 2011