Oh trees—the space between your scars,
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,
Will maul the rest of us too.
Editor: Yoli Ramazzina
Photo: Flickr/Michael Dorausch