They’ve taken tusks
and horns,
pressed butterflies between glass
and velvet-lined display cases, not seeing
the forest for the trees, too-often not even
seeing the trees,
the elephants,
the rhinos,
not feeling the winds on their arms, faces . . .
 
They cherry-pick facts and figures
then sell them as laws,
never thanking the cherry tree
for its endurance through winter, its quiet
encouragement of those nearby,
the long worked for
buds emerging like nipples
nurturing the mood of spring . . .
unfolding blossoms,
unfurling leaves,
hurling joy into the air . . .
 
Somewhere in time
when the feast somehow didn’t satisfy
some people started the itemizing and slaughter
and their sword of injustice
(because the sword cuts both ways)
cuts too deep
and from that wounded place of pain
where words fail come screams from the spirits
of the elephants,
the rhinos,
the butterflies,
the cherry trees . . .
 
Some may say that’s imagination
but one time i cut my finger
on the edge of a cast-iron pan
while cleaning and screamed-out for
a few moments,
it touched a nerve or whatever it touched
was a pain beyond words.
 
We need salves more than we need saviors,
ointments more than anointed ones.
 
Without the forests, the rivers, the thickets,
and all the fellow travelers,
how would we heal . . . ?