Yester-year,
they planted seeds deep in garden for safety flowers to take root.
More as grass than beautiful tapestries, roots were many
and multiplied, and they took to planting trees. Trees grew up
in awe of patches of flowered grass, to them kingmakers
all of them, knighting the saplings but when adulthood came
and hearty bark made muscular armed, and hardheaded wood
the revelry seen of common ground lurkers dissipated, evaporated
into clouded sky. Trees were mighty, god-like, powerful spirits
able to ordain their way.
Tomorrow-eve,
the forest is plentiful full of towering trees, barked
devils barking orders, changing clothes and trashing
floor with their unmentionables. Layers of shedded skin,
dead, smothering floor, and what was promised lurks
and suffocates forgetting the sun. The garden promised,
in this garden, has forgotten its humbled beginnings,
forgotten fables telling hard-truths that trees forget were needed.
Through gaps in foliage, passed star-fished bodies of browned
leaved, speckles of sun-rays hit flowered-grass, and sustains them,
on occasion man comes along, or catastrophe strikes,
and lumbering arrogant trunks cut sawed, cut, struck, snapped in half
collapsing like dominoes on one another.
Today-now,
flowers are thankful for simple aspirations, wind no cares,
saws pay no to little mind of grass blades, but on occasion
they miss very much full-embrace of sun stolen from them
by the children they nurtured.
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