By Stella V. TIWP Student

Each person has their own stamp,
their fingerprints woven into the skin
just like trees, strong and older,
each ring of the rough tree bending with stories.

Reaching high, intertwining in the sky
providing a canopy of safety,
we run and play under it
until we grow tall like the trees.

Hair rooted to our head
our mothers weave into braids
like the texture in the field
we can take any day.

Each of us is stunning,
wild and free,
like the beautiful flowers growing,
my sisters and me.

Then he comes swinging his axe
chopping down my brothers and sisters.
I wait for him to swing at me,
but he pauses, then says move.

Why, why do I get this privilege
because I have a voice to shout with
and scream no
or because I walk freely
running away from harm?

My brothers and sister are just like me.
No, they can’t run away
but they all have a story
to be shared one day.

When they are gone, who will be the canopy?
No, no, you need space for your buildings,
but who will provide the wheat?
Oh we will all eat plastic
because that’s what it comes to
when you kill off my friends and home and life.