Green Cathedral
My mother in home hospice phones crying
but let's not talk about the breast cancer.
Her tears for a tree are nothing new.
Now she's 97 but she was doing this in 1962
when she read Silent Spring by Rachel Carson.
It's the next door neighbors, she complains.
They cut down my green cathedral.
That old tree deserved to live.
They blame it for roof rot,
they say moss got into the shingles.
But that tree was here before their house.
The tree was alive before Mildred built the house.
The majestic tree was alive before she was born.
It's older than me
and could have outlived us all.
That old tree's so huge, a crew of three men
took all day to bring it down.
I'll never lay in bed again gazing into its branches.
I've loved that old oak most of my life
and don't want to be here when they decide
to cut down the other big grand tree.
Copyright 2025 Ingrid Bruck
Bio:
Ingrid Bruck lives and writes in Pennsylvania Amish country. A retired library director, she writes haiku short forms, grows wildflowers and makes jam. Four Pushcart nominations, two for Best of the Net. Current work appears in Failed Haiku, Spillwords and Poetry Hall. Poetry website: www.ingridbruck.com
Donation Appeal:
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