The trees are Spartan spears,
Authority and valor pierce the Horizon—
They stand dense and hold light and Fog.
They do not bend for you and me, they never have.
They do not bestow Grace or Mercy
There is no charge—of Light, Language and Heart—
Nor do they snap their bark or limbs apart.
Why is there no entry?
Do you, Secrets, unlock the Earthly goodness
Away from the pestering buzz of Humanity?— a distance of Isles,
The germination of life?
The Birds of the Militia do not sing
For you and me,
The trees do not cry when they fall—nor do the saplings envy its monumental parents.
They are set in place—in rows,
Like the asparagus on your plate.