Poems of Nature and Humankind

When naked pine trees
spread their brittle branches,

they say to me, Look
at our stunted, sick needles.

Our emaciated trunks have
no shade from savage summer heat

or thick insulation that buffers
against callous winter winds

that ambush us at night.
We die daily in plain sight.

I want to raise hell
in an op-ed piece.

Call me a green Romeo
whose conscience cannot rest

because of wooden leprosy
along this slow stretch of road.

I am not above hyperbole —
Toomer's Corner copycat spikes pines?

But like most, I cast empathic looks,
too afraid to say anything.

Afflicted scrubs fear the buzzing
chorus of corporate chainsaws.