Wasteland
by Craig Kirchner
The
forest thrived, nothing extravagant,
but
a diverse group of trees that had
communicated
for thousands of years,
through
millions of roots and fungi,
peacefully,
with no malice or hatred.
The
maternal trees were proud of their young.
When
the men came with their trucks,
and
their removal technology,
the
mycelium warnings were frantic,
but
there wasn’t anything they could do,
nowhere
they could go, and no way for them to
get
to a refuge, had there been one.
They
were there as their saplings were cut
down,
and
then the mothers too were cut, eliminated.
The
forest that had thrived, had beautified,
had
fed one another with its delicate system,
was
now a barren wasteland.
The
sun had nothing to touch, to nurture.
The
men who had slaughtered were content in
their
ignorance that this was their world,
and
trees were just in it.
This
forest had prospered eons before they
claimed
this land, it seemed as if they
destroyed
because they could.
Their
lack of compassion,
shared
by the throng back home,
despite
the innocence of the trees,
didn’t
seem misplaced, they had the power,
seemed
to need the carnage to stay in power,
and assured one another they needed the wood.