For as long as anyone around can remember
the massive tree, that strong, sturdy oak
has stood at the center of the sparse wood
that used to be a thriving forest
shrinking year after year as the lumberyard increased
and it will go on standing there
the symbol of security in all of its towering majesty
until it is the last tree left
amidst the once-flourishing wasteland of stumps
and then it, too, shall fall to the axe.

It will be the last to go, that is assured
for although from a distance it seems a small
and somewhat insignificant tree on the horizon
closer to it you fall under the green spell
of the sunlight filtering through the leaves
and the fuzzy moss grown upon its roots
and the spiraling ivy clinging to its trunk
and you could look up forever and never see the top,
nor ever reach the uppermost branches that
the trilling songbirds have chosen for their lofty home.

But crisp little paychecks have guaranteed
that someday the spell will be broken
and the axe will make the first bite
upon the tough, weathered skin of the last tree
and be a bit surprised at the easy job presented
for though that matriarch of the long-lost forest
seems towering and strong, covered with green and healthy,
inside is all hollow space, filled with dust and wind,
the symbol of strength for miles around is long dead
having been eaten away by worms from the inside out.

04/22/2002

Posted on 04/23/2002
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