When he was six years old
his family moved from the crowded city
to the stillness of the countryside, a
kid once raised by tall smokestacks,
a constant stream of chatter in the back of his head, and
a society where everyone is no one at the same time,
thrown to new shades of artificial green
and reality.
For a while
he missed the constant talking in his head,
forming a grey stream of nothing in the back of his mind
but he adapted
and he learned to speak the language of the trees.
With no one within a thirty-mile radius
the boy resorted to spending time outside.
When swimming in the brook next to his house
he talks with the minnows that
move alongside him,
learn his secrets and
tell him the secrets of the universe
to their limited knowledge.
When running in the fields of his backyard
he's careful to not step on the flowers
because their stories matter to him
and who would want to take away life so perfect,
so beautiful?
When he sits in the forest,
he listens to the wind
carrying the messages of the trees
broadcasting to the world
all the fear they hold in their trimmed branches
because if they grow to their fullest extent
they'll be burned by the fires.
The boy listens
and he does not ignore
because the trees have been around for longer than one can imagine
and they've seen things
they don't dare tell the world.
The trees,
they've seen their friends felled for firewood,
they've seen their family burned from one stray match,
they've seen their world be taken for granted.
When humanity has cut down the last tree,
intoxicated the last river,
caught the last fish,
won the last political debate,
when humanity sits atop its golden throne
that we've longed to own for so long
will we realize
we can't eat money or pride or ego?
Will we realize
we had all we needed
lying right in front of us?
The trees,
they know the answer.
Would they dare save us?
his family moved from the crowded city
to the stillness of the countryside, a
kid once raised by tall smokestacks,
a constant stream of chatter in the back of his head, and
a society where everyone is no one at the same time,
thrown to new shades of artificial green
and reality.
For a while
he missed the constant talking in his head,
forming a grey stream of nothing in the back of his mind
but he adapted
and he learned to speak the language of the trees.
With no one within a thirty-mile radius
the boy resorted to spending time outside.
When swimming in the brook next to his house
he talks with the minnows that
move alongside him,
learn his secrets and
tell him the secrets of the universe
to their limited knowledge.
When running in the fields of his backyard
he's careful to not step on the flowers
because their stories matter to him
and who would want to take away life so perfect,
so beautiful?
When he sits in the forest,
he listens to the wind
carrying the messages of the trees
broadcasting to the world
all the fear they hold in their trimmed branches
because if they grow to their fullest extent
they'll be burned by the fires.
The boy listens
and he does not ignore
because the trees have been around for longer than one can imagine
and they've seen things
they don't dare tell the world.
The trees,
they've seen their friends felled for firewood,
they've seen their family burned from one stray match,
they've seen their world be taken for granted.
When humanity has cut down the last tree,
intoxicated the last river,
caught the last fish,
won the last political debate,
when humanity sits atop its golden throne
that we've longed to own for so long
will we realize
we can't eat money or pride or ego?
Will we realize
we had all we needed
lying right in front of us?
The trees,
they know the answer.
Would they dare save us?
Event Date:
Friday, April 22, 2022
- IceGalaxy's blog
- Sprout
- Log in or register to post comments
gg
Feb 16, 2022
What a wonderful poem. It surprised me. It surprised me in the way it grew, in the way the message grew, from a delicate, magical imagining of a boy adapting, learning how to speak to nature, learn from nature, to a powerful, strong statement and the wonderful last line, last question.
Nicely done.
And I hope you don't mind, but I put some annotations in the poem -- only you can see the yellow marks and the notes -- on more specific things I liked and noticed.
As with ALL feedback from me (or anyone) you are the author, it is your creation, you are free to take or discard any and all suggestions I make. Without guilt.
I make them only because I know from experience that all writing is improved with good self-editing.
I should add that I am the founder of YWP. Several years ago I passed the organization to the fabulous Susan Reid. I am currently working on a novel but I pop in from time to time to be inspired by all of your work.
Peace,
gg