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.
When I think of the old providence,
the land where gods were megaliths
and human wants were always gone
the moment the chief called for blood,
I think that our ancestors had known
that beating hearts were a pestilence
to be separated from the chest
before the plague had taken hold
of more than just their overlords.