At sundown, we said goodbye
to several species, knowing
at dawn they would be murdered
for their bodies. I wonder
sometimes what my mother thinks
about the trees being taken,
about the planet having a fever,
ground hardening, water coming
with storms of rage. Here,
there is frozen grass, crunching
under foot, a wildness sprung
from weeds. The cool tint
of winter light in branches, a quiet
before a slaughter of aging trunks
and the wisdom they grew with.
I wonder if my mother knows
what projection is, if she would say
I project my own humanity and fear
onto the trees or if she knows
I hug at least one of these mammoths
every day, no matter the color of sky,
no matter the temperature of earth.
.
-Liza Wolff-Francis
Saturday's Sirens 