Never forget, in November
after the storm passed,
open hatred began
toward the trees.
People angered at trees
for being too damn big for there own good
lamented, both having been felled by gale winds
and uprooted from saturating rain.
The people forgot about shade and romanticism.
Humans blamed trees for breaking homes,
and stealing power, as much as the serpent
who was nowhere to be found.
That night, storm troopers mustered and
took to undefended forests and invaded
every village, armed with axes and gassed up chain saws.
Marching women followed lugging torches and ladders.
Humans hacked off limbs, echoes of cracked trees and
a grinding hum buzz of death ruled, without an opposing voice.
Soon, streets filled, underfoot, with puddles of chips and splinters.
Branches scattered about were piled, gathered for the burning.
When the sun rose, each human's yard was laid bear
proud with white pulp of stumps. No one cared to count
74 years of growth rings or feel softness, just under broken bark.
Only photographs remain of the children of the victorious
waving branches, ghastly trophies, still sticky with sap.
Hatred of trees would consume another generation.
Smiling children posed, propped up on line
after line of fallen stacked naked logs, that lay
executed along the shallow earthen holes.
Satisfied, humans breathed heavy, amid vapors of petrol and oil.
They breathe heavier still.
After this night, for trees; everything changed.
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