Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Thursday, December 20, 2018

Sonnet #279

To all the trees I've killed, an apology:
No death is ultimately devoid of meaning
But all of yours haunt no dreaming
I do not regret my mistakes of botany
That knocked you down to sticks and mud
Also, I stomped upon such seedlings, kicked my feet
to send the birthing acorns to tar and concrete
I took the axe and hacksaw -- traded sap for blood
I failed to plant you well, or failed to water well
I failed, and I will fail again, and trees will die

This is my apology: I'm sorry that life is felled
before it has a chance to paint the sky
and those old bones plane down into my citadels

Your justice will come after three rooster cries

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