She has her own way
of pruning trees, not the gentle touch
nor the vision of an arborist,
instead she snaps and breaks,
thins the weak wood that will not bear
the weight of fruit, clears the forest
just to start over—she does not care
if we wring our hands, gnash teeth
or bleed before she accepts our flesh
over and over again. Our moment
means nothing to her, she will adjust.
The grass will spring back to life
beneath our step, mountains rise
and valleys fall to waste. Nothing is
as it was—how could it be?
drycrikjournal 