My chipped, tired axe thumps against the trees.
With every weary blow, I am showered with leaves.
Worn, calloused hands gently pull up the young,
Whilst a soothing old folk song rolls of my tongue.
I harvest every tree, whether they are tall or small,
For I know that a use can be found for them all.
Yet I can’t help but wonder if they dread and know
The fate that unto them I cannot help but bestow.
I hope they do not.
When loading wood onto trucks, sawdust makes my dry eyes sting.
An act of revenge by the trees, albeit a tiny little thing.
Long, dead poles in piles alongside twigs lay tossed,
I wonder if those left behind mourn and weep for the lost?
I hope they do not.
Cold coins clink, catching in ragged ridges scarring my skin,
Too little to banish sunken eyes and bodies far too thin.
Just enough to keep them smiling, awake and alive,
My three young children who struggle daily to survive.
I think about the trees and I wonder if they forgive,
For I have sacrificed them so that my family may live.
I hope they do.