Where are Tolkien’s Ents?

There is an army of ghost trees ringing the coastlines of the world.

Once verdant, evidence of a healthy environment,

now leafless, bleached white in death,

phantoms of the forest that once was.

Melting icecaps and glaciers, causing oceans to rise,

inundating inland waterways with salt,

starving trees of nutrients.

Brackish water ushering in new plants and fish, killing off the old.

The ghost forests push inward as the forests in the interior burn,

tree genocide, victims of climate change manufactured by man.

When this house was our home

it nestled under pines four-stories tall

and a broad maple that made its place in the corner.

Making the house cool even on a hot summer’s day

and children played under its generous leaves.

When it was no longer our home,

and you lived in it alone,

the insurance company said ‘cut down the trees

for a discount on your insurance,’

and you did.

Now the sun beats down all day.

No respite from the heat.

At night you hear them, the murmurs, the subtle rustling,

do you ever catch a waft of pine on the air?

It is the tree shepherds making their rounds, making lists,

identifying the stewards of the planet and the enemies.