Forest

The screech of blades
slicing though
the tough bark
of ancient trees
breaks me.
The long mournful
moan of victims
saddens me.
Machines of metal
hoist my trees away.
My trees.
The trees that were
enjoyed
by the generations before me
The threes that my grandparents
would climb up
as children.
The trees of my childhood.
I sob
shallow and pitiful

The machines drive away
with half my forest
I emerge from the
cracked shell that
I am and I see one
small skinny tree
The one tree left behind.
Around it the
once majestic
trees are gone
replaced with tree stubs.
I dig with my own
bare hands, a hole
And I reach in my pocket
a seed.

My tears nurture the
seed and soon
that one seed
will become a forest