Oh. The solar comes and the trees must go.
Uncovering hidden stone walls of my great grandfather’s toil years ago.
But the walls will be smoothed out too- just like the mother trees-
The wisest, oldest, trees spared by my fore-fathers years ago.
Tall sentries in the corners of their fields.
I cry with the mothers as I count their rings. We are all pushed aside for modern things.
Progress is upon us. Our memories will perish with the coming night sky.
As I sit and remember the mother tree cries.
By Cheryl Randall-Mach