The smell of raw wood
struggles to fight its way over
the oily exhaust of the chain saws.
It is a contest these resinous exhalations
lose as surely as the maple and pine
eventually bow to the keening teeth of steel.
For years I was hushed
by the gnawing growl of the city,
my heartwood ripped by neck-tied woodsmen
wielding telephones, email and arrogant lies.
When I eventually fall
to their maleficent ministrations,
I won’t scream and crash
with the powerful gasp of the plummeting timber.
I will no doubt go down with
the push of an OFF button,
a click of a pen,
and post-straightline silence.
Until then, unlike the wind-strummed forest,
I won’t stand and whisper.
I will scream and crash and
thrash about on pages cut
from those who fell before me.