Spruce towers
over weeping hemlock
balsam and pine.
Pale peach clouds
paint the sky circling
fringed spires.
Trees
our first cathedrals…
Some still gather
under these boughs.
Her Voice
is being Silenced.
The Spirit of
the Forest
Departs…
Slaughtered trees cry.
‘There’s nothing to be done.
One far –away day
we will live again’.
Meanwhile,
Rapacious greed,
Indifference
eclipse the Numinous
as mighty machines roar.
The spruce sat in the center of the (unremarkable) picture I thought I took of blushing clouds. Peering at the photo I heard the trees’ lament – one spruce reaching for the stars spoke for them all – so many slain – fertile earth uprooted.
Once this Forest gifted me with a home; filled my life with meaning…I still find solace here, but the Soul of the Earth is weeping.
Acceptance is all that’s left I am told.
Over The Edge and Beyond: Journal of a Naturalist 