They stand to strive as best they can
Among the city's urban blight,
To cast their shade, to give us shelter,
Without their air we'd have no life.
They give to us more than we know,
They give us life so we can grow,
Their food we take without a care,
With thoughts it will always be there.
The axe is struck into their flesh,
The saw cuts deep, clear blood will let
Itself run free, as the life drains out,
With not one thought of the pain that's caused.
It's just a tree - nothing special - nothing great for the taking,
Its roots are torn, its bark is ravished
Then tossed away, or made to lavish within some form to serve, or burn,
Yet we do not know, still we do not learn.
To many trees mean nothing
They have no life, nor have a soul,
They cannot hear, they cannot see, but most of all they cannot feel
Pain, like you and me.
But it's not true, for they are alive
With a heart, and a soul that can feel,
They give us so much, if we'd let ourselves see,
They are so much more, than just a tree.
Rusty Blackwood.
Copyright 2005-09.
~ The day I wrote this I was angry - maybe disgusted
would be a much better adjective, for that same day
I'd noticed the destruction of more healthy trees.
They once again had fallen to urban development.
Heaven forbid they leave a tree standing within
five hundred yards of the impending house - which
by the way seldom enjoys more than two hundred feet,
give or take. It never ceases to amaze me what little
respect a tree is given, yet when the day comes when
oxygen is nowhere to be found maybe then some respect
might appear. Such was the inspiration for this poem. ~
R.B.
