Progress

I miss the voices of the trees.

I watched the trees give shade and sway
beside the lake where we would play.
Red maple, white ash, silver oak--
we listened as the trees all spoke.

Their voices were the melody
that sing in treetop harmony.
From limb to limb in sheltered shade,
the talk of trees was serenade.

But progress being without pause,
it razed the trees for its own cause.
And once where trees grew by the lake
is now a lot for retail sake.

I miss the voices of the trees;
their words were gentle and would please.
Bulldozers toppled them one day.
After that, there was nothing left to say.


16 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
June 5, 2013