Now, when I walk through the pretty little wood

Behind my house,
I press my ear to the ancient cedars
And their weathered old trunks
And I hear things.
Instead of the inaudible surge of
Vital sap flowing, the steady energetic
Pulse of something like a
Heartbeat,
I hear machines,
Cold clanging upon clanging.
Savage tearing, ripping,
Screaming, biting, bleeding.
The sound of anguished nestlings
Staring hopelessly into the face
Of a razed house that was also a
Home.

Now, when I bring my cheek to the damp lichen
On the forest floor
In that pretty little wood,
I don't feel the cooling oasis of earthy dew
Or the satin-like softness of moss tendrils,
But parched shells
Of what once was,
The dead, silently, suffering ground
That mirrors only the people who walk upon it,
Who are they themselves,
Parched shells of what once was,
Who have lost all remembrance of a time
When they too were filled with the sweet
Earthy dew of moss and trees,
Who have forgotten what it is
To know that they too have roots like trees,
That delve deep into the core of the world
And intertwine with one another.

Now, all that is left in the ruin is I,
A crumpled individual
Desperately clawing through the lifeless, burned, dirt,
Letting the dark ash sift through my shaking fingers.