Grieving Trees

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A God-awful sound

as a tree is cut down,

a horrible vision to see,

The slicing of saw

as the branches withdraw,

has broken the spirit in me.

Yes, there’s a reason,

there’s one every season,

but that is no solace for grief.

Twigs are collected.

The shredder’s directed,

ignoring the burnished-red leaf.

I pause in salute,

this sad graveyard, acute.

Destruction cannot be undone.

But hopeful one day

there’ll be new buds at play,

New birth that will bask in the sun.

 

Paula Antonello Moore, poetry. Copyright: Tuesday, October 16, 2018.

Image: Grieving Trees by P.A. Moore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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