It was in the winter of ’98,

when all this happened to me.

The trees and land I groomed for years,

died with the frozen trees.

For two long nights I couldn’t sleep.

The cannon shots I heard.

The trees they fell like soldiers all,

their branches torn won’t heal.

What made it worse, there was no light,

only the darkness of the night.

The trails I cut.

The fields I trimmed.

The sugar bush no more.

The trees I trimmed to sixteen feet,

died in Nature’s war.

It’s three A.M. I gaze upon

the scene before my eyes.

The moon I see has broken

through the blackness of the skies.

The ice it gleams like chandeliers

this beautiful sight I see,

are diamonds shining in the night,

on my beautiful broken trees.

The minutes pass and once again

the darkness fills the skies.

I cannot help but think upon

the scene that filled my eyes.

Is this real or just a dream,

I try to understand, there’s beauty there

but then again there’s damage to the land.

Three hundred years the maples grew

spread out their lofty crowns.

Then suddenly with thunder sounds

they lay upon the ground.

The trunks are split,

the sap no more will reach its lofty height.

To me alone at three A.M. it was an ugly sight.

With mixed emotions

I sat there, the sounds, the scene, the sights.

I wondered what would happen next

within this active night.

The birch trees now are being bent,

toward the forest floor.

Then suddenly I hear again

that murderess thunder roar.

That large ash tree that grew with zeal,

will grow with zeal no more.

Its shattered limbs and broken trunk,

are on the forest floor.

Many trees will die tonight,

but many, many more,

will survive the onslaught of

Mother Nature’s war.

But life goes on the poets say,

they’ll be another day.

We’ll clean the mess

and trim the rest,

and wait for spring to see the best.

To feel the breeze

and see the leaves,

where life may ease

to all of these:

My beautiful broken trees.