It is a fateful wind that blows in clear-cut forests

No bending branches no white-noise chorus

The kind of whispers that raise goosebumps

Like hushed vespers said over rotting stumps

The musky-sweet smell of the forest’s decay

A pungent censer for crows as they pray.

The wind feeds clouds born of barren landforms

They scour the earth with hail and thunderstorms

They reach up till the Heavens yell “Stop!”

But the lightning strikes out at the thunderhead’s top

It’s saying  “From Hell’s heart I stab at thee!”

Assailing the temple of deity.

The memory of psithurisms is an old man’s delight

Of walks in the woods on trails of dappled sunlight.

Through the trees that were the definition of ancient.

Their dancing leaves lent cool air its subtle scent.

Now roof shakes, fire wood and detritus

are all that is left of what used to delight us

Woods that sang sonnets to our immortal soul

were put to good use and bent to our control

Now we are the trees and with every breath

we breath the methane of a forest’s death.

Just as we’ll be buried under forest leaves

The rest’ll be buried under what mankind leaves.