Compensation
A tree gets killed. Men in a hurry finds its heart
and cut it apart. Down it dies
through the green and golden halls,
heavy as myth, and injures the earth, falling.
The chainsawyers snarl into the corpse
and snag on the dryad sleeping inside.
The woods boss drags her out;
The lumberjackss swear prayers and unbuckle.
Man’s second weapon was the axe. The dryad
cries out in a green tongue. If she survives,
she will bear rooty monsters: the woods will walk
against the cities. Mortality,
thrust into her against the grain,
quickens her heartwood with rot.
Dimly, they know what they are doing.
Fair is fair. They leave her split and move on
to ordinary trees, already denying
what they have planted. It is not a rite
to survive the fitful light of cities,
where the green dream is decoration.
Wood burns, but nothing is lost. Revenge
informs the sap in the tips of new branches.
The dryads keen in the barrens. Saws
sooner or later kick back. Safety first.