My mother cried from our porch when
they scalped the forest behind
our back yard and tore a bloody mess of
homeless roots and lumpy mud
from once proud trees that surely
should have been more permanent than me.

The dandelions they stomped, the leaves
they ripped to bits; but they tied
not a tourniquet to stifle the ebb of life.
Eventually, their concrete sidewalks
will suffocate the scent of misplaced
dirt, but for now, it lingers wherever
I walk, mercilessly reminding me
of childhood hours spent skipping
over logs and splashing in the creek.

When they have finished constructing
their suburban heaven, I will wander
amongst the cut-copy-paste homes
and be the sole witness to a funeral
for the earth. But
I hold sacred to me the quiet reassurance
that elsewhere, miles away, a seed will sprout,
clinging to its mother with fragile roots,
and reluctantly depart her shelter
to climb steadily toward the sky.