“A tree which has lost its head will never recover it again, and will survive only as a monument of the ignorance and folly of its Tormentor.” ~ George William Curtis
The soil tastes of your faults,
water and wind sing of decay
that wears your face.
“It’s the way of the Wheel,”
the oldest of us used to say,
“men eat some of our young
and we feed on their dead.”
I stretch a blooming limb,
show dead sprouts to the clouds…
They cover me in acid tears
and wail of springs that aren’t real.
You’ve broken the Wheel,
I speak through rotting shoots,
but men seem not to hear
the coming of everyone’s doom.
the wee notes…
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Speaking for Spring’s Stillborn Sprouts: write a new poem from the point of view of a grieving plant whose sprouts were just killed as a result of climate change.
“The Crying Tree”, by Kobold-Art