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Carol McCormick

Power Lines, Trees, and the Human Condition

My lover hates power lines,
the way they barge through his sky,
as if he were the owner.
Still he hates them, distracts him,
his mind spins a bit faster with
the buzz running in the air
like some impatient fly
spinning around a wine glass waiting
for the picnic to move to the grass,
so he can climb inside.

In the same respect he loves trees,
the way they scent his air,
as if he held special claim.
Still he loves them, they calm him,
the way they are about lending shade
without a single thought, not like people,
with their penchant for measuring this and that.
Indeed he didn't care for them
and rightly so when the corner tree

is struck clean through the middle
with power lines, as if man had finally
gotten his fingers in every bowl
only to decide once was never enough.