November in the southern half 

of this spinning orb

heralds the arrival of steamy nights

longer days

cicada chorus.

Trees that shed their skin. 

Once white limbs smooth and glistening

now mottled pink and amber

painted  by the seasons,

brushed with morning skies

and the fading of days light .

Names scored into trunks

in a tilt at lovers immortality.

Lift and buckle

discarded 

shrugged off.

And so they stand

as they did when Columbus  sailed,

when only brown men

walked below their boughs.

When only fire flies and the Milky Way lit the night skies.

And so they split their skin,

as plagues ravaged

droughts swept

colonies were built and crumbled

heads were lost and 

hearts were broken

And so they bent

to the winds of time.

This nest or that

this loss

that bloom.

As if memory is not a strong enough elixir

we grasp at immortality.

We dig our knife into the living trunk.

We insist something is ours

or theirs.

We offend we take offense.

We empire build and cry.

As Nero plays his violin 

as our delusions burn

we shout, unfair!

And while we do

the trees continue to shed their bark

until we cut every last one down 

so we are reminded not 

of our insignificance.