As I blithely slice oriental bittersweet from its root on this land called my own, Don’t think I don’t see the irony. No species could possibly be more invasive than we.
On the boundary between this property and its neighbor Along rock walls jumbled in complacency, Vines entangle hickory, oak, beech, and wild cherry. Like Laocoön and his sons caught in miles of cable twisting out from under his computer table.
I harbor no prejudice. This is not ethnic cleansing. I cut wild grape, thick as a man’s arm And as muscular, From trunks of native trees.
When I was young I patrolled these woods as if I owned them, As if it mattered. Now I’m just trying out a new chainsaw delivered by Amazon to my door.
Preparing this land once called my own for its next tenants. Perhaps they will be Inspired to some new resurrection that is not me.
But since this is my life, I choose to take a stand. I stand with the wild cherry.
