I stopped once to hear a sitar
played in a leafy shade.
A carpet had been laid to soften
spreading roots, and when the musician
paused, he rested his instrument
against a sturdy trunk.
Felled for a utility pole, says the young gardener
with outraged face. Couldn’t they
have found another place?
Now, where just a week before
we gathered in uncommon grace,
a stump and side-lying trunk.
Growth rings slowly weep sap.
Severed branches collect in a heap.
Something there is that doesn’t love a tree,
that sees only expendability; sees logs,
split and stacked for firewood;
sees timber, 2 X 4’s, cash.
That looks at shade and wants full sun;
that wants to make way for a lawn,
a fairway, a putting green.
©July 29, 2020
#68 of my 100 Poem Pandemic Challenge
Revised 1/12/21 with Susanna Rich
Woman Aloud 