It clubbed the trees, swung them by the hair.
Broke their arms and legs.
Next to the lake, it yanked a big one from the ground.
The naked web of roots and crater it left
made me gasp.
I weep for the trees, I weep for us
that we concoct such mayhem
from the gas and chemicals we spew--
poisoning everything except for cockroaches.
I would like to know what a real forest looks like.
I would like to see one that has grown, undisturbed by saws and careless fires, for hundreds of years.
I picture it as so dense with giant trunks
a man can barely pass,
so thick with mighty branches and leaves
no wind gets through.
I think I like trees too much.
Was I one? Am I one now?
Jacqueline Coleman-Fried is a poet and essayist living in Tuckahoe, NY. She wants to know: How much monstrous weather must we endure before we finally get serious about protecting the environment--and ourselves? Her work has appeared in The Voices Project and Home Planet News Online.