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It' a question of bright stars
and of four petals cupped
to catch sun and reflect
a hovering circle of white.
Here, where the big trees
were so recently logged-off
and the jagged teeth of stumps
and broken arms of branches
question the meaning of sanity.
a slide of mud and stones
advances down the ravine,
and dogwood and maple are bowed
under weight of future burial.
It's a question of the last act
before man-made dying
that hundreds of blossoms
about a final triumph
for earth and sky to behold.
Were we to be an armless,
legless race of creatures belly-crawling through life
perhaps we could learn of beauty,
but instead we cut down
the very answers we seek
in torn earth, and the secrets
remain unseen by us, as we
plunge forward blindly,
brushing aside the blossoms.
