So at last it is time. Beneath me I can feel them. So tiny, so insignificant And yet in their hands they hold the power To destroy A lifetime of memories. My branches quiver as they Shouting their meaningless talk Shove into my roots Their sharp needles of pain. Do they know Do they care That they are carelessly Leveling All that I contain? My memories of darkness, under the rich warm soil Then struggling, a struggle that no man could ever comprehend, To reach up, out, Into what I had never seen but wanted? Then at last, blessed sunshine, Warm Full of life And all I needed to survive. That feeling of joy Of that intense exhilaration Lost. And more. I remember seeing children play at my feet When I was but a sapling. Their bare feet Shinnying up my trunk Fast as any squirrel. Soft laughter in my branches Children laughing, children playing Among my new leaves. Bouncing, giggling, romping In a wondrous pile of color At my feet When the first breaths of autumn Chilled the air. Then they grew up And went away. They are dead now, Long in their graves. And only my memories remain. Till these too are taken. It will not be long now. I rid myself of all worries And strive To remember. The countless squirrels who made their home here The sparrows that flitted around my twigs The insects that bored into my trunk That tap-tap of the woodpeckers after them The fire that raged through my forest But left me intact. So many memories to see So little time to see them. The lightning that struck my neighbor spruce The hurricane that uprooted half my forest The war that continued on and on Within a nation. The assassination of a great man Who stopped the war With his life. A brave and wonderful woman Risking her life to win freedom For so many others. And more. The man who had polio but went on to be A great president. He came and sat under my branches. Great artists Who painted in shapes and vivid colors All have passed away Nothing remains but their legacy And my memories. These too are being ripped away now. Below me the men are almost through With their cruel saws Their harnesses. They back away. One more man still at his job Till he too, runs back. A creaking A groaning A whistling in my branches A straining in my roots Until at last I fall. |
