Pruning

(note: this poem was written after driving home, witnessing the work of a brutal machine that "prunes" vegetation along the highway by ripping it out with a rotating chain)


“…Against none is his wrath kindled, save those who confess not his hand in all things…”

A tree stands wounded, broken, stripped,
Its branches hardly neatly clipped,
But left instead to dangle, mute
But weeping, on my homeward route.
Its numbers multiply along
The highway, one sick, silent throng.
It makes my stomach turn, this proof
Of wanton, thoughtless “work”: uncouth,
This show of cold, efficient thrift:
No recognition of the Gift.
It seems a wicked crack among
So many larger in the wall;
How long, O God, shall that be hung
Till fiery tide consume it all?


-Linda Hyde