The trees have no words to tell us
the pain we
have caused,
As we haven’t the eyes to see
dead stalks as breathing
antennae
And the constant arrangements of beauty
as life
agreeing
From one throbbing heart
we are somehow
free from –
Its warmth is only a brush fire
set far away by
our children,
Who never really listened – we’re so afraid
that they’ll
get caught.
