Mutilated

The natural pattern of a tree is to grow

straight and tall

skyward

Eight years have past now

since these little trees were topped

with the angry swipe of a knife

The survivors slowly

finding a way to adjust,

stunted

but alive.

Much the same

I imagine,

as the widows of the

swipe

at the Twin Towers

once reaching straight and tall

skyward.

It was shortly after that 9/11

shockwave

when we were still debating

our nation’s response

I hiked this trail

heavy with the world’s sorrow

coming upon

little tree after little tree

topped

with their bright green crowns

stunned with the sudden

be-heading

slender trunks cut

raw and weeping

For a half mile

I walked and wept

praying over the trees

praying over those of the fallen towers

praying over all those our war

would be-head

cutting short more lives

mutilating more futures.

What kind of person

would mutilate

dozens of young trees

living

their lives out

reaching for the sun?

What kind of nation

would mutilate a

society of people, families

and landscapes

living

their lives out

on top of a land

rich with oil,

worshiping God

with a different name?

I do what I can do.

I hold a hand of healing

over the raw wounds.

I gather the tops

so they are together

and write a prayer.

I leave it all

in the woods

with let the cry

of the wind

send me home.

This poem came today years later as I was checking out the trees progress while on the ridge.  I was too broken up about it all years ago to pen a poem.  Today wasn't much easier.