When I am dust,
mere rumor
discussed among leaves,
who will guard my trees?

Will squandered limbs feed fetid pyres,
incineration smirch a howling moon
and my fine grove be consumed,
swaying seduction reduced to sharded wood?

Will the sky erupt in a crimson scourge of fire,
cartwheels of flame tumble to earth
and my young trees be devoured
martyrs in the apocalyptic maw?

Will my trees be steeped in vile yellow waste,
mutate into cringing, tortured shapes
or will they simply wither
as the earth grows cold, the air more foul, the soil a soak for noxious reek?

Will my seedlings shriek?

When Zachariah, who was foretold
strives to consume the last of the spoils
I pray my will stand sentinel
to trees like fists in the wind.