Passing on our inheritance

Now, as an elder in a younger’s world, I understand my hand’s work more than I did from the days before my age gave sway to the unfolding years and present days in which I stand and work.

I understand the days past when the axeman swung his blacksmithed axe and trees felled lay dead with cause to let the sunlight filter to an unformed field from which to raise and yield his food.

But now in elder years I wonder why we desolate, create the barren waste in which we live so disconnected in our haste with which we lose control so too connection to the whole of life from which we came.

I would the forests now long gone could stand again to hold against the tide of man’s great haste to waste in greed and plunder so what no man planted nor did grow the wood from which he warms and builds against the winter’s bitter chill.

But never can we see again those forests stretched beyond the mind of man who’s axe no longer cuts and severs from the root the wood he once depended on. The covenant twixt land and man now severed as the root beneath the ground lies rotting ‘til the whole returns to earth