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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