Warped Saplings
T. Sigler
One of these days I'll die,
and the mountains will swallow the place up.
Maybe they'll have a little misty morning tea party,
the leaves cupping dew.
The grass, no longer at threat of being mowed, will
flourish.
A bird will fly off on the horizon,
making the sky wink
at the freed vegetation.
He will bring back seeds
and plant his own preferred flowers,
instead of the ones I've chosen all these years.
The trees will head-bang, rocking out to the silence.
Snails, no longer at risk of being stomped,
relax and move in sweet slime time.
The elder pines that surrounded me all my life,
will talk about what a pain-in-the-ass guest I was,
how I destroyed the leaf carpet every fall,
how I broke stuff and burned things,
how I invaded their space, climbed them.
They'll describe me as a warped sapling.
After all this time,
the interloper is gone.
We set out to make our mark on the world,
as if this is a good thing,
but that leaves behind
scars.
We'd do best to not.
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