There were those that feared the forest,
feared its mighty upwardness,
its reach up into the valley of stars,
and were jealous of the attention the wind gave.
And they gnawed like tunnel rats on their resentments,
on the bare bones of their grievances,
until they mushroomed in the dark.
And they came like petty purse snatchers in the night
to cut the trees,
brave only while under shrouded dark cover,
creeping away like a contemptible mist.
The leaves were shaken and scattered
and the branches splintered,
bleeding sap onto the mourning ground,
while the cries rang through the maelstrom’d air,
and the ground trembled with the sound of the stampede,
of the many coming to rescue.
The leaves were gathered
and the roots bound and covered with care.
The forest will never die,
and the pitiless dread that slides in disguised as righteous,
should never be confused with right.
Terror is a tool in the clumsy hand of a coward,
and those tools have a way of slipping and biting…
The roots that spread like veins underground can wait
until the time to grow again.
no puny prick of a delusional insect
biting with crabbed and craven intent
at the feet of the giant
can topple it.
stand together ,
and reach again toward the valley of the stars,
the city of light.