Though grief for trees would be for show,
the saws sound stricken as they rage.
Where sawdust drifts like fragrant snow,
old growth recedes from this thin ridge.
Along the berm, nailed to a bole,
a sign boasts early settlers spared
these trees that seemed to keep the whole
blue dome of sky aloft and spired.
Hardening now from root to pith,
the stumps bulge from half-frozen sludge.
Defendants forced to plead the Fifth,
they’re waiting for an absent judge.
Fat boughs thud down. There and not there,
a few still cling to last year’s leaves
that whisper, in the splintered air,
assurances no one believes.
Felled trunks retain what hikers’ blades
have carved—some marks so faded on
the bark twined with bare kudzu braids
the cutters must be decades gone.