Oh trees—the space between your scars
Thin as baby hair, discolored against morning fog.
Thin as baby hair, discolored against morning fog.
I feign a smile in the mugginess—engine sounds rolling off the hill.
We wake to a glut of fast food, plastic bags and soda cans,
Play make-believe with an ancient support system,
While roots keep solitary guard.
Each tree wears years of battles,
Nature’s convulsions, like wedding rings,
Well aware that what mauls them.
