I imagine the lumberjack
little laments the sad fact
of felled timber,

the brutal aftermath
of that somber scene,
deep ruts cut

into the forest floor,
wide spines sprawling wildly
forth in every direction,

saplings young and tender
snapped to make way,
single rings silenced

in the vociferous wake
of man's machine
chugging mindlessly onwards,

that yellow purveyor
of dread
belching smoke

into to the blue sky,
vomiting the loud foul oil
whose odor yet echoes to orchestrate

this somber scene:
once wooded hills stripped bare.
Today I tread

where dryads drown,
watch nymphs gnaw
at raw roots

gasping in the open air.
Sans saw, sans axe,
today I walk

among these ruins,
and in an act
of considerable eccentricity,

treat dead tree trunks
with dignity.

07/29/2018

Author's Note: Without permission from my partner, the family land he and his siblings inherited was logged. It was a beautiful area before it was raped and pillaged to make a quick buck. This poem stems from that.

Posted on 07/29/2018
Copyright © 2024 Dane Campbell