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BLAMING WOOD FOR THE CRUCIFIXION
by Edward Stever

The oaks, cedars and elms
are speaking in tongues.
For years, they stood mute,
each acknowledging the difference
of the other.

But now, they speak,
hushed,
watching from a distance,
the
encroachment:
A new Tudor on Linden Street.

And the wind lashes
and the lightening shrieks,
and the trees shake fury
in the language of dark soil and tendriling roots.

Their words could construct
a sentence,
a paragraph,
a page,
a paper,
a primal predilection:
A bone-built scaffold around each,
so they might grow
to the standing reaches of heaven
to beg forgiveness,
a supplication,
written on the parchment of their flesh
for the single act of Judas Iscariot.

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