We’ve Run Out of Some Paints

Birds are like poems against the sky, surreal mist surrounds trees

I’d paint the page with sunflowers and marigolds,
but Wordsworth’s nature is long in its grave.

We have forgotten the cold mountain stream,
the little birds in the blueberry bush,
the worms wiggling beneath their hungry beaks,
and the sound of the forest is deafening for us
as the chainsaw’s roar over heavy machinery.
For us nature is a conversation,
A metaphor for human care and change,
and a political questioning of the trees
in search for meaning when we bludgeon a rose
and all the beauty that it has stood for.

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