Image from Wepna Loneagle
At Grandmothers Circle the Earth
No copyright infringement intended.
I remember when we were many, as far as the eye could see, covering the land from sea to sea. In those days, the wild creatures were plentiful, and the few humans were our friends. We lived together in harmony and mutual respect. Now, most mountain slopes are bare, marked with clearcuts. And still they come for we few Old Ones remaining. We tremble; the earth shudders with their mighty equipment. I cling with my roots, dig them deeply, feeling in the underground network of our joined hands the screams of the fallen, that the humans don't hear. I ache with the thump of their bodies hitting the ground. As they die, they go silent. Roots slain, I will hear them never again.
I weep as my sisters fall, long roots pointing at the sky, as if the wisdom teeth of the planet are being pulled, along with the wise old ways human beings have forgotten. The wild creatures flee, homeless, with nowhere to go, starving and afraid. The planet warms; wildfires come for those of us remaining. Our garden has turned into the apocalypse in just one hundred years. For greed, for oil, for money. The last of my kind watches in horror and disbelief. Because humans don't understand, our fate will soon be theirs.
216 words. For Telling Tales with Magaly at Poets United on Sunday: writing from the perspective of trees. Sunday in Tofino, we are holding a tree event, to state the obvious: we need to protect the old growth we have left. We are fighting losing battle, it seems.