Lateral Timber

My living room is a forest of books, 
A story printed on every dusty page,  
Knowledge classified among the branches,  
Each holding a sanctuary of human thought. 

Sometimes when reading, I can hear them 

Speaking to me, the disembodied trees 

That were used to create such saintly tools, 

As if they’d sacrificed their sliced-up bodies 

For the betterment of a species they love, 

Whose endless vault of anecdotes, statistics, 

Dramas that ring through the centuries, piqued 

Their longevity, as if they were still standing.  

All trees sacrifice, it’s in their nature 

To be used, inhabited, eaten, dislodged, 

Seemingly comfortable with the pain 

That all the animals of the world inflict, 

Not just us, we restless pods that move 

Faster than they can detect.  One day, 

When the Earth grows warm and the plants 

Turn red, the soil churned in a varnished plastic, 

We’ll be the next ones swarmed by speed,  

Unconscious of the circuit in the sky, 

Content to serve a greater power sprouted 

From the seeds we'd planted at their feet.