Newtown, Connecticut by Amber Koneval


twenty-seven saplings
sprung green and smooth
bending graceful
in some far away
never heard of
small
quiet
place

twenty-seven sylvan canopies
arched with grasping branches
to the sun, caressing
each twist and gnarl of bark,
toughening
against the wind

twenty-seven still
had time to grow
twenty-seven tendrils snapped
roots pulled as the sharp ax
swung
severing the thick, sturdy trunks
from their delicate
desperate limbs

twenty-seven felled to the sound of screams
and nursery rhymes
we had to keep the forest calm
amidst the thunder
said the dawn

we had to give them something
to believe in

and what do
we
believe in?

twenty-seven gone
and yet, the world is singing

“oh!
how blinding
was the blade”

 

 

By Amber Koneval

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