The Forest
The loggers leave a path:
mud streaks, hewn branches, stumps,
scarred trees, boulders askew-
marks left as if a titan has been dragged
screaming through the forest.
The formerly peaceful walk
through the worshiping trees is now
a tormented vision as of a battlefield done,
the leavings of Grendel's feast
strewn about.
And next year they will be marked
again with circles of paint
like numbers tattooed on wrists
waiting for the train.
The conversation of the trees
is now stunted--
a stricken, amazed
silence echoes.
The caretakers count
their 30 pieces of silver.
The loggers count their
board-feet and drink another beer.
The loggers leave a path:
mud streaks, hewn branches, stumps,
scarred trees, boulders askew-
marks left as if a titan has been dragged
screaming through the forest.
The formerly peaceful walk
through the worshiping trees is now
a tormented vision as of a battlefield done,
the leavings of Grendel's feast
strewn about.
And next year they will be marked
again with circles of paint
like numbers tattooed on wrists
waiting for the train.
The conversation of the trees
is now stunted--
a stricken, amazed
silence echoes.
The caretakers count
their 30 pieces of silver.
The loggers count their
board-feet and drink another beer.
the poem is not my