Stuck at home in need of a hike,

My father says a forest with vines.

My mother says a forest with trees,

And not a spiky one with stinging bees.

But I saw a chopped down one with forest friends,

And all crows back in the end.

My father says, “Where is the place?”

My mother says, “What kind of base?”

But I’ve known without bore, that my place is straight out the door.

We open the door and my father says, “By now the forest must be dead.”

My mother says, “Just keep a good vibe,

But there will be no forests straight outside.”

But I say, there’s cut down trees

Down through the centuries

It grew as queen

And I’ve known all along about those trees

To sing

a mystery song…

And this may be plain absurd,

They’re not just outside,

It’s my whole world!

The End (or is it?)

The remaining trees reached at the sky. Their gnarled fingertips grasping at the grey smog. In a long forgotten past the tree’s limbs were covered with a vibrant green blanket. The trees has lived peacefully, but soon grey clouds engulfed and snuffed out the clear blue days. The clouds blocked out the sun and the trees withered as they shed their leafy green coats. Man came and chopped away at the trees, carrying their lifeless trunks and  leaving thousands of stubs. A reminder that something great and miraculous was once there.

The people came.

They cut our nature,

Reduced it to stumps,

What was once a part of our earth,

Are ghosts now.

Watching the horrid things that humans do,

So even they are driven away,

By huge clouds of smoke.

The people left are gone now,

So are the trees.

 

Trees cut down are wood. Meaning the world only sees what a tree could be. Fire wood, furniture, building blocks….But the purest people in the world only see a tree. Sure they might think of what it could be. They see the beauty grace, giving-ness of the tree, the fruit it bears, the animals it holds, the strength it has to be climbed on. These pure souls aren’t religious, aren’t the brightest and aren’t always nice. They are the children of the world, weathered by age or by heart. They see a tree, a beautiful, graceful, majestic tree. Not firewood, not furniture, but a living thing.