The fog falls over my eyes and I think about the faded paper people, I wonder why it is
that they go, when really time is only measured by what we see
of birth and death, but energy,
the energy of our beings radiates into our souls,
the ground and in the trees,
but I see a logger cutting, cutting, cutting at your base as if you have grown just for him
to seek out on this day. How dare he!
How dare he cut you down just for a house
a house for a family in some state in some place that I will never see
and all I have is this paper, a paper from another tree
containing another’s mother, father, son or daughter
and hate that the fade takes you away from me.
©2013 J. M. Tompkins