The Patience of a Tree
The Patience of a Tree By Thea Clarkberg Two paths diverged beneath my feet— One paved, and one muddy, off the beat. I left the cars and bustling street To find a stream, a would-be retreat. Its waters were choked with plastic and waste, Ignored by those who walked on in haste. Among the muck, an egret white Stood still, a fragile, ghostly sight. It flew away as I drew near, Its instinct sharp, its path so clear. What was that sickly sweetness in the air? The stench of death was everywhere. I saw ahead a wolf or dog, hard to tell, Its teeth gleaming white in a sunken shell. I passed it by and did not stay, But the path just stopped and fell away. Some draft of a park the city had planned— Now swallowed up by brambled land. I stood where trail met thorn and stone, Staring at trash the world disowned. The highway thundered just overhead, While the water below ran thick and dead. Oh world, I cried, what have we done? We’ve scorched the soil and blocked the sun. We pass each other, m...

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