The Healing of the Land
By: Eric Fulmer

The war is over, peace has returned,
The fires are extinguished, the lessons learned.
But for the Land, no battle was won,
No treaty of peace can undo what was done.

For decades of beauty have been erased,
The work a few years cannot replace.
Perhaps never again will the beauty exist,
That filled my youth with eternal bliss.

But slowly, it appears, the land is repairing,
The damage caused to it by our own erring.
Small tips of plants sprout up through the earth,
Coloring the Land with the green of rebirth.

A rich, soft carpet recovers the ground
That once was trampled by those battle bound,
And one by one, birds return with their singing,
Soon the new meadow with their songs is ringing.

But one spot remains bare, bereft of life,
As if in mourning for some undue strife.
No grass there grows, no birds there sing,
A patch in memory of some great thing.

This spot was once home to the old, majestic oak,
Whose limbs in the storm of war were broke.
It's great beauty; nothing can replace,
And as I thought of it, tears streamed down my face.

For in my mind, this was more than a tree,
It was a companion that gave company to me,
It stands in my memory, the epitome of my life,
Gave me strength in the face of strife.

Never again will I sleep at night,
Born in the majesty of its height,
Or lean against its side each day,
Listening to the birds singing their lay.

For never again will that great tree stand,
Exalted high in the midst of the land.
Some things, it seems, will never truly reclaim,
The beauty once held before they were maimed.