(from Skagit Valley, British Columbia)
Slopes lay streaked with skeletons where the giants had stood. Bandage white, washed by mountain sun… not the color of woods. Yet wood they fell; still there. Some steel, man, his will; well they just bent wood’s will. Steel will where wood won’t, and man won’t where God will. So all these you see, men brought buckling to theirs. Trees seen to scratch the back of the sky; trees known for whispers, groan… stop. Now men and their screaming claws have fled with the crop. Only remains rotting bones of pine with no box. These woods cannot whisper but look, their story is a plain glare.
But there, with a Poet’s eyes, look. That is, look and be wise. Humble death’s child must rise.
Sparkling needles press through, bleeding green and the ground is a quilt of life, all new.
It is man to wail and steal and make some way.
It is woods to lay and wait and grow another day.
I wonder who will have the final will and say…
Will man hold and stay, or will the Woods?