A Word from Mother Tree

My babies were all safely tucked
in their little bud-beds,
when that sultry Chinook wind
fueled by human greed and ignorance
blew through and lured them
to awaken too soon.
I tried to warn them,
but buds will grow
the way they want to grow.
They rarely listen to Mother Tree.
When the sap rises,
they're off and away.
And so they opened,
and my heart wept,
my tears joining the freezing
rain and sleet that followed.

The hardy ones may recover
and complete their cycle.
But so many little blooms were lost,
along with the fruit they would have been,
along with the disappearing bees
and salmon, and whales,
and coral reefs and plankton,
all gasping in humanity's
last choking dance of despair.

It isn't easy,
being a Mother Tree,
in a world grown perilous
for things that grow.

for Magaly's cool prompt at Real Toads: to speak with the voice of a grieving tree whose buds have been damaged by climate change.