Trees
By:Victoria Crossman

Trees

I.
Trees drip water from first spring rain,
I can smell them dying. Green fades to brown, and
Withers away. Roots seep in toxins, spreading to
Body, trunk, stretching to outer limbs, arms
Reaching, calling, asking, as if to say,
“Please save us.” And we cut them down to quiet them.
Sawdust clouds our vision and hovers
Over a plot of land, I watched it disappear, like it was
Never there. What kind of times are these?
II.
Bitter air waves in the forest,
Limbs freeze but they’re green inside.
Still living, pulsing breath. Frozen
Mask of winter hides life beneath, hard soil
Near the roots, but underneath soft life,
Nourishing the body. I want to put my hands in the soil,
Feel the earth on my fingertips. I cannot get through
Frozen layers, it must be for the trees alone, and
Not I. They were here first.
III.
The trees, the trees. They are alive with
Rage of a breed dying out, of a
Breed hybridized, a breed inorganic,
Cross contaminated. Alive with
Modified limbs for healthier growth,
Specialized molecular structure to
Improve aesthetic quality. Alive with hatred because
They are not alive. The trees,
The trees are dead.