They cut our woods and all that's left is dirt
Between the larger trees, untouched dessert
Left standing for another meal. It took
A week to clear and burn the weathered book
That took a hundred years to write in ink
Of chlorophyll and tannin. Now our link
With nature's past is just a few old leaves
whose tattered edges tell of past reprieves.
It will grow back as woods have always done
But how many years before they look as filled
With life as they did a week ago? The sun
Will do its work along with rain that's spilled
From winter skies, And only those who've stood
Among those trees will miss the former wood.